THE  WORKS  OF 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 

FOR  THE 
ENGLISH  READING  ROOM 


ENGLISH    FOX    HUNTING 

From  the  Painting  by  C.  Loraine  Smith 

"The  hounds  caught  sight  of  the  fox,  burst 
into  one  frantic  shriek  of  joy — and  then  a 
sudden  and  ghastly  stillness,  as,  mute  and 
breathless,  they  toiled  up  the  hillside,  gaining 
on  their  victim  at  every  stride.  The  patter  of 
the  horse-hoofs  and  the  rattle  of  rolling  flints 
died  away  above.  Lancelot  looked  up,  startled 
at  the  silence ;  laughed  aloud,  he  knew  not 
why,  and  sat,  regardless  of  his  pawing  and 
straining  horse,  still  staring  at  the  chapel  and 
the  graves." 

— "  Yeast," 
P-  '5 


oZZZZ^" 

THE     BIDEFORD     EDITION 

w 

NOVELS,    POEMS  &*  LETTERS 

OF   CHARLES    KINGSLEY 

YEAST 

BY  CHARLES  ^INGSLEY 

WITH    THE    PREFACES   TO   THE 

FIRST   AND    FOURTH 

EDITIONS 

ILLUSTRATED 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

THE    CO-OPERATIVE 

PUBLICATION  SOCIETY 

l'^v*J 

l«££l 

0  0 

M 

Copyright,  1899 
BY  J.  F.  TAYLOR  &  COMPANY 


PREFACE 

TO  THE  FOURTH   EDITION 

THIS  book  was  written  nearly  twelve  years 
ago;  and  so  many  things  have  changed 
since  then,  that  it  is  hardly  fair  to  send  it  into  the 
world  afresh,  without  some  notice  of  the  improve- 
ment—  if  such  there  be  —  which  has  taken  place 
meanwhile  in  those  southern  counties  of  England, 
with  which  alone  this  book  deals. 

I  believe  that  things  are  improved.  Twelve 
years  more  of  the  new  poor  law  have  taught 
the  laboring  men  greater  self-help  and  indepen- 
dence; I  hope  that  those  virtues  may  not  be 
destroyed  in  them  once  more,  by  the  boundless 
and  indiscriminate  almsgiving  which  has  become 
the  fashion  of  the  day,  in  most  parishes  where 
there  are  resident  gentry.  If  half  the  money  which 
is  now  given  away  in  different  forms  to  the  agricul- 
tural poor  could  be  spent  in  making  their  dwell- 
ings fit  for  honest  men  to  live  in,  then  life,  morals, 
and  poor-rates  would  be  saved  to  an  immense 
amount.  But  as  I  do  not  see  how  to  carry  out 
such  a  plan,  I  have  no  right  to  complain  of  others 
for  not  seeing, 

A— Vol.  V 


viii     Preface  to  the  Fourth  Edition 

Meanwhile  cottage  improvement,  and  sanitary 
reform,  throughout  the  country  districts,  are  going 
on  at  a  fearfully  slow  rate.  Here  and  there  high- 
hearted landlords,  like  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  are 
doing  their  duty  like  men;  but  in  general,  the 
apathy  of  the  educated  classes  is  most  disgraceful. 

But  the  laborers,  during  the  last  ten  years,  are 
altogether  better  off.  Free  trade  has  increased 
their  food,  without  lesser  ing  their  employment. 
The  politician  who  wishes  to  know  the  effect  on 
agricultural  life  of  that  wise  and  just  measure,  may 
find  it  in  Mr.  Grey  of  Dilston's  answers  to  the 
queries  of  the  French  Government.  The  country 
parson  will  not  need  to  seek  so  far.  He  will  see 
it  (if  he  be  an  observant  man^,  in  the  faces  and 
figures  of  his  school-children.  He  will  see  a  rosier, 
fatter,  bigger-boned  race  growing  up,  which  bids 
fair  to  surpass  in  bulk  the  puny  and  ill-fed  genera- 
tion of  1815-45,  and  equal,  perhaps,  in  thew  and 
sinew,  to  the  men  who  saved  Europe  in  the  old 
French  war. 

If  it  should  be  so  (as  God  grant  it  may),  there 
is  little  fear  but  that  the  laboring  men  of  England 
will  find  their  aristocracy  able  to  lead  them  in  the 
battle-field,  and  to  develop  the  agriculture  of  the 
land  at  home,  even  better  than  did  their  grand- 
fathers of  the  old  war  time. 

To  a  thoughtful  man,  no  point  of  the  social 
horizon  is  more  full  of  light  than  the  altered 
temper  of  the  young  gentlemen.  They  have  their 
faults  and  follies  still  —  for  when  will  young  blood 
be  other  than  hot  blood?  But  when  one  finds, 


Preface  to  the  Fourth  Edition        ix 

more  and  more,  swearing  banished  from  the  hunt- 
ing-field, foul  songs  from  the  universities,  drunken- 
ness and  gambling  from  the  barracks;  when  one 
finds  everywhere,  whether  at-  college,  in  camp,  or 
by  the  cover-side,  more  and  more,  young  men 
desirous  to  learn  their  duty  as  Englishmen,  and  if 
possible  to  do  it;  when  one  hears  their  altered 
tone  toward  the  middle  classes,  and  that  word 
'  snob '  (thanks  very  much  to  Mr.  Thackeray)  used 
by  them  in  its  true  sense,  without  regard  of  rank ; 
when  one  watches,  as  at  Aldershot,  the  care  and 
kindness  of  officers  toward  their  men ;  and  over 
and  above  all  this,  when  one  finds  in  every  pro- 
fession (in  that  of  the  soldier  as  much  as  any) 
young  men  who  are  not  only  '  in  the  world/  but 
(in  religious  phraseology)  'of  the  world,'  living 
God-fearing,  virtuous,  and  useful  lives,  as  Christian 
men  should :  then  indeed  one  looks  forward  with 
hope  and  confidence  to  the  day  when  these  men 
shall  settle  down  in  life,  and  become,  as  holders  of 
the  land,  the  leaders  of  agricultural  progress,  and 
the  guides  and  guardians  of  the  laboring  man. 

I  am  bound  to  speak  of  the  farmer,  as  I  know 
him  in  the  South  of  England.  In  the  North  he 
is  a  man  of  altogether  higher  education  and 
breeding:  but  he  is,  even  in  the  South,  a  much 
better  man  than  it  is  the  fashion  to  believe  him. 
No  doubt,  he  has  given  heavy  cause  of  complaint. 
He  was  demoralized,  as  surely,  if  not  as  deeply, 
as  his  own  laborers,  by  the  old  Poor  Law.  He 
was  bewildered  —  to  use  the  mildest  term  —  by 
promises  of  Protection  from  men  who  knew  better. 


x        Preface  to  the  Fourth  Edition 

But  his  worst  fault  after  all  has  been,  that,  young 
or  old,  he  has  copied  his  landlord  too  closely, 
and  acted  on  his  maxims  and  example.  And 
now  that  his  landlord  is  growing  wiser,  he  is 
growing  wiser  too.  Experience  of  the  new  poor 
law,  and  experience  of  free-trade,  are  helping 
him  to  show  himself  what  he  always  was  at  heart, 
an  honest  Englishman.  All  his  brave  persistence 
and  industry,  his  sturdy  independence  and  self- 
help,  and  last,  but  not  least,  his  strong  sense  of 
justice,  and  his  vast  good-nature,  are  coming  out 
more  and  more,  and  working  better  and  better 
upon  the  land  and  the  laborer;  while  among  his 
sons  I  see  many  growing  up  brave,  manly,  prudent 
young  men,  with  a  steadily  increasing  knowledge 
of  what  is  required  of  them,  both  as  manufacturers 
of  food,  and  employers  of  human  labor. 

The  country  clergy,  again,  are  steadily  improv- 
ing. I  do  not  mean  merely  in  morality  —  for 
public  opinion  now  demands  that  as  a  sine  quct, 
non  —  but  in  actual  efficiency.  Every  fresh 
appointment  seems  to  me,  on  the  whole,  a  better 
one  than  the  last.  They  are  gaining  more  and 
more  the  love  and  respect  of  their  flocks;  they 
are  becoming  more  and  more  centers  of  civiliza- 
tion and  morality  to  their  parishes;  they  are 
working,  for  the  most  part,  very  hard,  each  in  his 
own  way ;  indeed  their  great  danger  is,  that  they 
should  trust  too  much  in  that  outward  "  business  " 
work  which  they  do  so  heartily;  that  they  should 
fancy  that  the  administration  of  schools  and 
charities  is  their  chief  business,  and  literally 


Preface  to  the  Fourth  Edition        xi 

leave  the  Word  of  God  to  serve  tables.  Would 
that  we  clergymen  could  learn  (some  of  us  are 
learning  already)  that  influence  over  our  people 
is  not  to  be  gained  by  perpetual  interference  in 
their  private  affairs,  too  often  inquisitorial,  irri- 
tating, and  degrading  to  both  parties,  but  by 
showing  ourselves  their  personal  friends,  of  like 
passions  with  them.  Let  a  priest  do  that.  Let 
us  make  our  people  feel  that  we  speak  to  them, 
and  feel  to  them,  as  men  to  men,  and  then  the 
more  cottages  we  enter  the  better.  If  we  go  into 
our  neighbors'  houses  only  as  judges,  inquisitors, 
or  at  best  gossips,  we  are  best  —  as  too  many  are 
—  at  home  in  our  studies.  Would,  too,  that  we 
would  recollect  this  —  that  our  duty  is,  among 
other  things,  to  preach  the  Gospel ;  and  consider 
firstly  whether  what  we  commonly  preach  be  any 
Gospel  or  good  news  at  all,  and  not  rather  the 
worst  possible  news;  and  secondly,  whether  we 
preach  at  all ;  whether  our  sermons  are  not  utterly 
unintelligible  (being  delivered  in  an  unknown 
tongue),  and  also  of  a  dulness  not  to  be  surpassed ; 
and  whether,  therefore,  it  might  not  be  worth 
our  while  to  spend  a  little  time  in  studying  the 
English  tongue,  and  the  art  of  touching  human 
hearts  and  minds. 

But  to  return :  this  improved  tone  (if  the  truth 
must  be  told)  is  owing,  far  more  than  people 
themselves  are  aware,  to  the  triumphs  of  those 
liberal  principles,  for  which  the  Whigs  have 
fought  for  the  last  forty  years,  and  of  that  sounder 
natural  philosophy  of  which  they  have  been  the 


xii      Preface  to  the  Fourth  Edition 

consistent  patrons.  England  has  become  Whig; 
and  the  death  of  the  Whig  party  is  the  best  proof 
of  its  victory.  It  has  ceased  to  exist  because  it 
has  done  its  work;  because  its  principles  are 
accepted  by  its  ancient  enemies;  because  the 
political  economy  and  the  physical  science,  which 
grew  up  under  its  patronage,  are  leavening  the 
thoughts  and  acts  of  Anglican  and  of  Evangelical 
alike,  and  supplying  them  with  methods  for 
carrying  out  their  own  schemes.  Lord  Shaftes- 
bury's  truly  noble  speech  on  sanitary  reform  at 
Liverpool  is  a  striking  proof  of  the  extent  to 
which  the  Evangelical  leaders  have  given  in  their 
adherence  to  those  scientific  laws,  the  original 
preachers  of  which  have  been  called  by  his  Lord- 
ship's party  heretics  and  infidels,  materialists 
and  rationalists.  Be  it  so.  Provided  truth  be 
preached,  what  matter  who  preaches  it?  Pro- 
vided the  leaven  of  sound  inductive  science 
leaven  the  whole  lump,  what  matter  who  sets  it 
working?  Better,  perhaps,  because  more  likely 
to  produce  practical  success,  that  these  novel 
truths  should  be  instilled  into  the  minds  of  the 
educated  classes  by  men  who  share  somewhat  in 
their  prejudices  and  superstitions,  and  doled  out 
to  them  in  such  measure  as  will  not  terrify  or 
disgust  them.  The  child  will  take  its  medicine 
from  the  nurse's  hand  trustfully  enough,  when  it 
would  scream  itself  into  convulsions  at  the  sight 
of  the  doctor,  and  so  do  itself  more  harm  than 
the  medicine  would  do  it  good.  The  doctor 
meanwhile  (unless  he  be  one  of  Hesiod's  "fools, 


Preface  to  the  Fourth  Edition      xiii 

who  know  not  how  much  more  half  is  than  the 
whole")  is  content  enough  to  see  any  part  of  his 
prescription  got  down,  by  any  hands  whatsoever. 

But  there  is  another  cause  for  the  improved 
tone  of  the  landlord  class,  and  of  the  young  men 
of  what  is  commonly  called  the  aristocracy ;  and 
that  is,  a  growing  moral  earnestness;  which  is  in 
great  part  owing  (that  justice  may  be  done  on  all 
sides)  to  the  Anglican  movement.  How  much 
soever  Neo-Anglicanism  may  have  failed  as  an 
ecclesiastical  or  theological  system;  how  much 
soever  it  may  have  proved  itself,  both  by  the 
national  dislike  of  it,  and  by  the  defection  of  all 
its  master-minds,  to  be  radically  un-English,  it 
has  at  least  awakened  hundreds,  perhaps  thou- 
sands, of  cultivated  men  and  women  to  ask  them- 
selves whether  God  sent  them  into  the  world 
merely  to  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,  and  to  have 
"their  souls  saved"  upon  the  Spurgeon  method, 
after  they  die;  and  has  taught  them  an  answer  to 
that  question  not  unworthy  of  English  Christians. 

The  Anglican  movement,  when  it  dies  out, 
will  leave  behind  at  least  a  legacy  of  grand  old 
authors  disinterred,  of  art,  of  music;  of  churches 
too,  schools,  cottages,  and  charitable  institutions, 
which  will  form  so  many  centers  of  future  civili- 
zation, and  will  entitle  it  to  the  respect,  if  not  to 
the  allegiance,  of  the  future  generation.  And 
more  than  this;  it  has  sown  in  the  hearts  of 
young  gentlemen  and  young  ladies  seed  which 
will  not  perish;  which,  though  it  may  develop 
into  forms  little  expected  by  those  who  sowed  it, 


xiv     Preface  to  the  Fourth  Edition 

will  develop  at  least  into  a  virtue  more  stately 
and  reverent,  more  chivalrous  and  self-sacrificing, 
more  genial  and  human,  than  can  be  learnt  from 
that  religion  of  the  Stock  Exchange,  which 
reigned  triumphant  —  for  a  year  and  a  day  —  in 
the  popular  pulpits. 

I  have  said  that  Neo-Anglicanism  has  proved 
a  failure,  as  seventeenth-century  Anglicanism 
did.  The  causes  of  that  failure  this  book  has 
tried  to  point  out:  and  not  one  word  which  is 
spoken  of  it  therein,  but  has  been  drawn  from 
personal  and  too  intimate  experience.  But  now 
—  peace  to  its  ashes.  Is  it  so  great  a  sin,  to  have 
been  dazzled  by  the  splendor  of  an  impossible 
ideal  ?  Is  it  so  great  a  sin,  to  have  had  courage 
and  conduct  enough  to  attempt  the  enforcing  of 
that  ideal,  in  the  face  of  the  prejudices  of  a 
whole  nation  ?  And  if  that  ideal  was  too  narrow 
for  the  English  nation,  and  for  the  modern  needs 
of  mankind,  is  that  either  so  great  a  sin?  Are 
other  extant  ideals,  then,  so  very  comprehensive  ? 
Does  Mr.  Spurgeon,  then,  take  so  much  broader 
or  nobler  views  of  the  capacities  and  destinies  of 
his  race,  than  that  great  genius,  John  Henry 
Newman  ?  If  the  world  cannot  answer  that  ques- 
tion now,  it  will  answer  it  promptly  enough  in 
another  five-and-twenty  years.  And  meanwhile 
let  not  the  party  and  the  system  which  has  con- 
quered boast  itself  too  loudly.  Let  it  take  warn- 
ing by  the  Whigs;  and  suspect  (as  many  a 
looker-on  more  than  suspects)  that  its  triumph 
may  be,  as  with  the  Whigs,  its  ruin;  and  that, 


Preface  to  the  Fourth  Edition       xv 

having  done  the  work  for  which  it  was  sent  into 
the  world,  there  may  only  remain  for  it,  to  decay 
and  die. 

And  die  it  surely  will,  if  (as  seems  too  prob- 
able) there  succeeds  to  this  late  thirty  years  of 
peace  a  thirty  years  of  storm. 

For  it  has  lost  all  hold  upon  the  young,  the 
active,  the  daring.  It  has  sunk  into  a  compro- 
mise between  originally  opposite  dogmas.  It  has 
become  a  religion  for  Jacob  the  smooth  man; 
adapted  to  the  maxims  of  the  market,  and  leaving 
him  full  liberty  to  supplant  his  brother  by  all 
methods  lawful  in  that  market.  No  longer  can 
it  embrace  and  explain  all  known  facts  of  God 
and  man,  in  heaven  and  earth,  and  satisfy  utterly 
such  minds  and  hearts  as  those  of  Cromwell's 
Ironsides,  or  the  Scotch  Covenanters,  or  even  of 
a  Newton  and  a  Colonel  Gardiner.  Let  it  make 
the  most  of  its  Hedley  Vicars  and  its  Havelock, 
and  sound  its  own  trumpet  as  loudly  as  it  can,  in 
sounding  theirs;  for  they  are  the  last  specimens 
of  heroism  which  it  is  likely  to  beget  —  if  indeed 
it  did  in  any  true  sense  beget  them,  and  if  their 
gallantry  was  really  owing  to  their  creed,  and  not 
to  the  simple  fact  of  their  being  —  like  others  — 
English  gentlemen.  Well  may  Jacob's  chaplains 
cackle  in  delighted  surprise  over  their  noble 
memories,  like  geese  who  have  unwittingly 
hatched  a  swan! 

But  on  Esau  in  general  —  on  poor  rough  Esau, 
who  sails  Jacob's  ships,  digs  Jacob's  mines, 
founds  Jacob's  colonies,  pours  out  his  blood  for 


xvi      Preface  to  the  Fourth  Edition 

him  in  those  wars  which  Jacob  himself  has  stirred 
up,  while  his  sleek  brother  sits  at  home  in  his 
counting-house,  enjoying  at  once  "  the  means  of 
grace"  and  the  produce  of  Esau's  labor  —  on  him 
Jacob's  chaplains  have  less  and  less  influence; 
for  him  they  have  less  and  less  good  news.  He 
is  afraid  of  them,  and  they  of  him;  the  two  do 
not  comprehend  one  another,  sympathize  with 
one  another;  they  do  not  even  understand  one 
another's  speech.  The  same  social  and  moral 
gulf  has  opened  between  them,  as  parted  the 
cultivated  and  wealthy  Pharisee  of  Jerusalem 
from  the  rough  fishers  of  the  Galilean  Lake;  and 
yet  the  Galilean  fishers  (if  we  are  to  trust 
Josephus  and  the  Gospels)  were  trusty,  generous, 
affectionate  —  and  it  was  not  from  among  the 
Pharisees,  it  is  said,  that  the  Apostles  were 
chosen. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  Esau  has  a  birthright;  and 
this  book,  like  all  books  which  I  have  ever 
written,  is  written  to  tell  him  so;  and,  I  trust, 
has  not  been  written  in  vain.  But  it  is  not  this 
book,  or  any  man's  book,  or  any  man  at  all,  who 
can  tell  Esau  the  whole  truth  about  himself,  his 
powers,  his  duty,  and  his  God.  Woman  must  do 
it,  and  not  man.  His  mother,  his  sister,  the 
maid  whom  he  may  love;  and  failing  all  these 
(as  they  often  will  fail  him,  in  the  wild  wandering 
life  which  he  must  live),  those  human  angels  of 
whom  it  is  written  —  "  The  barren  hath  many  more 
children  than  she  who  has  an  husband."  And 
such  will  not  be  wanting.  As  long  as  England 


Preface  to  the  Fourth  Edition     xvii 

can  produce  at  once  two  such  women  as  Florence 
Nightingale  and  Catherine  Marsh,  there  is  good 
hope  that  Esau  will  not  be  defrauded  of  his  birth- 
right; and  that  by  the  time  that  Jacob  comes 
crouching  to  him,  to  defend  him  against  the 
enemies  who  are  near  at  hand,  Esau,  instead  of 
borrowing  Jacob's  religion,  may  be  able  to  teach 
Jacob  his ;  and  the  two  brothers  face  together  the 
superstition  and  anarchy  of  Europe,  in  the  strength 
of  a  lofty  and  enlightened  Christianity,  which 
shall  be  thoroughly  human,  and  therefore  thor- 
oughly divine. 

C.  K. 

February  ijtfi,  1859. 


PREFACE 

TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION 

THIS  little  tale  was  written  between  two  and 
three  years  ago,  in  the  hope  that  it  might 
help  to  call  the  attention  of  wiser  and  better  men 
than  I  am,  to  the  questions  which  are  now  agitat- 
ing the  minds  of  the  rising  generation,  and  to  the 
absolute  necessity  of  solving  them  at  once  and 
earnestly,  unless  we  would  see  the  faith  of  our 
forefathers  crumble  away  beneath  the  combined 
influence  of  new  truths  which  are  fancied  to  be 
incompatible  with  it,  and  new  mistakes  as  to  its 
real  essence.  That  this  can  be  done  I  believe 
and  know :  if  I  had  not  believed  it,  I  would  never 
have  put  pen  to  paper  on  the  subject. 

I  believe  that  the  ancient  Creed,  the  Eternal 
Gospel,  will  stand,  and  conquer,  and  prove  its 
might  in  this  age,  as  it  has  in  every  other  for 
eighteen  hundred  years,  by  claiming,  and  sub- 
duing, and  organizing  those  young  anarchic  forces, 
which  now,  unconscious  of  their  parentage,  rebel 
against  Him  to  whom  they  owe  their  being. 

But  for  the  time  being,  the  young  men  and 
women  of  our  day  are  fast  parting  from  their 


Preface  to  the  First  Edition 

parents  and  each  other ;  the  more  thoughtful  are 
wandering  either  towards  Rome,  towards  sheer 
materialism,  or  towards  an  unchristian  and  un- 
philosophic  spiritualism.  Epicurism  which,  in  my 
eyes,  is  the  worst  evil  spirit  of  the  three,  precisely 
because  it  looks  at  first  sight  most  like  an  angel  of 
light.  The  mass,  again,  are  fancying  that  they 
are  still  adhering  to  the  old  creeds,  the  old  church, 
to  the  honored  patriarchs  of  English  Protestantism. 
I  wish  I  could  agree  with  them  in  their  belief  about 
themselves.  To  me  they  seem  —  with  a  small 
sprinkling  of  those  noble  and  cheering  exceptions 
to  popular  error  which  are  to  be  found  in  every 
age  of  Christ's  church — to  be  losing  most  fear- 
fully and  rapidly  the  living  spirit  of  Christianity, 
and  to  be,  for  that  very  reason,  clinging  all  the 
more  convulsively  —  and  who  can  blame  them?  — 
to  the  outward  letter  of  it,  whether  High  Church 
or  Evangelical;  unconscious,  all  the  while,  that 
they  are  sinking  out  of  real  living  belief,  into 
that  dead  self-deceiving  belief-in-believing,  which 
has  been  always  heretofore,  and  is  becoming  in 
England  now,  the  parent  of  the  most  blind,  dis- 
honest, and  pitiless  bigotry. 

In  the  following  pages  I  have  attempted  to  show 
what  some  at  least  of  the  young  in  these  days  are 
really  thinking  and  feeling.  I  know  well  that  my 
sketch  is  inadequate  and  partial:  I  have  every 
reason  to  believe,  from  the  criticisms  which  I  have 
received  since  its  first  publication,  that  it  is,  as  far 
as  it  goes,  correct.  I  put  it  as  a  problem.  It 
would  be  the  height  of  arrogance  in  me  to  do 


Preface  to  the  First  Edition 

more  than  indicate  the  direction  in  which  I  think 
a  solution  may  be  found.  I  fear  that  my  elder 
readers  may  complain  that  I  have  no  right  to  start 
doubts  without  answering  them.  I  can  only 
answer,  —  Would  that  I  had  started  them !  would 
that  I  was  not  seeing  them  daily  around  me,  under 
some  form  or  other,  in  just  the  very  hearts  for 
whom  one  would  most  wish  the  peace  and 
strength  of  a  fixed  and  healthy  faith.  To  the 
young,  this  book  can  do  no  harm ;  for  it  will  put 
into  their  minds  little  but  what  is  there  already. 
To  the  elder,  it  may  do  good;  for  it  may  teach 
some  of  them,  as  I  earnestly  hope,  something  of 
the  real,  but  too  often  utterly  unsuspected,  state 
of  their  own  children's  minds ;  something  of  the 
reasons  of  that  calamitous  estrangement  between 
themselves  and  those  who  will  succeed  them, 
which  is  often  too  painful  and  oppressive  to  be 
confessed  to  their  own  hearts  !  Whatever  amount 
of  obloquy  this  book  may  bring  upon  me,  I  shall 
think  that  a  light  price  to  pay,  if  by  it  I  shall  have 
helped,  even  in  a  single  case,  to  "  turn  the  hearts 
of  the  parents  to  the  children,  and  the  hearts  of 
the  children  to  the  parents,  before  the  great  and 
terrible  day  of  the  Lord  come,"  —  as  come  it 
surely  will,  if  we  persist  much  longer  in  substitut- 
ing denunciation  for  sympathy,  instruction  for  edu- 
cation, and  Pharisaism  for  the  Good  News  of  the 
Kingdom  of  God. 

1851. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION i 

CHAPTER 

I.  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  FOX-HUNTING I 

II.   SPRING  YEARNINGS .  19 

III.  NEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE 37 

;     IV.  AN  "  INGLORIOUS  MILTON  " 69 

V.  A  SHAM  is  WORSE  THAN  NOTHING 79 

VI.  VOGUE  LA  GALERE 89 

VII.  THE  DRIVE  HOME,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT  .    .  no 

VIII.  WHITHER? 122 

IX.  HARRY  VERNEY  HEARS  HIS  LAST  SHOT  FIRED   .  141 

X.  "MURDER  WILL  OUT,"  AND  LOVE  TOO     ....  154 

XI.  THUNDERSTORM  THE  FIRST 181 

XII.  THUNDERSTORM  THE  SECOND 195 

XIII.  THE  VILLAGE  REVEL 209 

XIV.  WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE? 244 

XV.  DEUS  EX  MACHINA 265 

XVI.  ONCE  IN  A.  WAY 294 

XVII.  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH  .    .    .  307 

EPILOGUE 335 


'*  The  days  will  come  to  ben  yi  shall  desire  to  see 
oni  of  tbt  days  of  tbt  Son  of  man,  and  ye  shall  not 
suit." 


YEAST :   A  PROBLEM 


CHAPTER   I 

THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  FOX-HUNTING 

AS  this  my  story  will  probably  run  counter  to 
more  than  one  fashion  of  the  day,  literary 
and  other,  it  is  prudent  to  bow  to  those  fashions 
wherever  I  honestly  can;  and  therefore  to  begin 
with  a  scrap  of  description. 

The  edge  of  a  great  fox-cover;  a  flat  wilderness 
of  low  leafless  oaks  fortified  by  a  long,  dreary, 
thorn-capped  clay  ditch,  with  sour  red  water  ooz- 
ing out  at  every  yard;  a  broken  gate  leading  into 
a  straight  wood-ride,  ragged  with  dead  grasses 
and  black  with  fallen  leaves,  the  centre  mashed 
into  a  quagmire  by  innumerable  horse-hoofs; 
some  forty  red  coats  and  some  four  black;  a 
sprinkling  of  young  farmers,  resplendent  in  gold 
buttons  and  green;  a  pair  of  sleek  drab  stable- 
keepers,  showing  off  horses  for  sale;  the  surgeon 
of  the  union,  in  Mackintosh  and  antigropelos; 
two  holiday  schoolboys  with  trousers  strapped 
down  to  bursting  point,  like  a  penny  steamer's 
safety-valve;  a  midshipman,  the  only  merry  one 
in  the  field,  bumping  about  on  a  fretting,  sweat- 
ing hack,  with  its  nose  a  foot  above  its  ears ;  and 
Lancelot  Smith,  who  then  kept  two  good  horses, 


2  Yeast 

and  "  rode  forward "  as  a  fine  young  fellow  of 
three-and-twenty  who  can  afford  it,  and  "has 
nothing  else  to  do,"  has  a  very  good  right  to  ride. 

But  what  is  a  description,  without  a  sketch  of 
the  weather?  —  In  these  Pantheist  days  especially, 
when  a  hero  or  heroine's  moral  state  must  entirely 
depend  on  the  barometer,  and  authors  talk  as  if 
Christians  were  cabbages,  and  a  man's  soul  as 
well  as  his  lungs  might  be  saved  by  sea-breezes 
and  sunshine;  or  his  character  developed  by  wear- 
ing guano  in  his  shoes,  and  training  himself 
against  a  south  wall  —  we  must  have  a  weather 
description,  though,  as  I  shall  presently  show, 
one  in  flat  contradiction  of  the  popular  theory. 
Luckily  for  our  information,  Lancelot  was  very 
much  given  to  watch  both  the  weather  and  him- 
self, and  had  indeed,  while  in  his  teens,  combined 
the  two  in  a  sort  of  a  soul-almanack  on  the  prin- 
ciples just  mentioned — somewhat  in  this  style: 

"Monday,  2\st. — Wind  S.W.,  bright  sun, 
mercury  at  30^  inches.  Felt  my  heart  expanded 
towards  the  universe.  Organs  of  veneration  and 
benevolence  pleasingly  excited ;  and  gave  a  shil- 
ling to  a  tramp.  An  inexpressible  joy  bounded 
through  every  vein,  and  the  soft  air  breathed 
purity  and  self-sacrifice  through  my  soul.  As  I 
watched  the  beetles,  those  children  of  the  sun, 
who,  as  divine  Shelley  says,  '  laden  with  light 
and  odor,  pass  over  the  gleam  of  the  living  grass, ' 
I  gained  an  Eden-glimpse  of  the  pleasures  of 
virtue. 

"  N.  B.  Found  the  tramp  drunk  in  a  ditch. 
I  could  not  have  degraded  myself  on  such  a  day 
—  ah  1  how  could  he  ? 

"  Tuesday,    22d.  —  Barometer   rapidly  falling. 


The  Philosophy  of  Fox-Hunting        3 

Heavy  clouds  in  the  south-east.  My  heart  sank 
into  gloomy  forebodings.  Read  '  Manfred  '  and 
doubted  whether  I  should  live  long.  The  leaden 
weight  of  destiny  seemed  to  crush  down  my  ach- 
ing forehead,  till  the  thunderstorm  burst,  and 
peace  was  restored  to  my  troubled  soul." 

This  was  very  bad ;  but  to  do  justice  to  Lance- 
lot, he  had  grown  out  of  it  at  the  time  when  my 
story  begins.  He  was  now  in  the  fifth  act  of  his 
"Wertherean"  stage;  that  sentimental  measles, 
which  all  clever  men  must  catch  once  in  their 
lives,  and  which,  generally,  like  the  physical 
measles,  if  taken  early,  settles  their  constitution 
for  good  or  evil;  if  taken  late,  goes  far  towards 
killing  them.  Lancelot  had  found  Byron  and 
Shelley  pall  on  his  taste  and  commenced  devour- 
ing Bulwer  and  worshipping  "  Ernest  Maltravers. " 
He  had  left  Bulwer  for  old  ballads  and  romances, 
and  Mr.  Carlyle's  reviews;  was  next  alternately 
chivalry-mad  and  Germany-mad;  was  now  read- 
ing hard  at  physical  science;  and  on  the  whole, 
trying  to  become  a  great  man,  without  any  very 
clear  notion  of  what  a  great  man  ought  to  be. 
Real  education  he  never  had  had.  Bred  up  at 
home  under  his  father,  a  rich  merchant,  he  had 
gone  to  college  with  a  large  stock  of  general 
information,  and  a  particular  mania  for  dried 
plants,  fossils,  butterflies,  and  sketching,  and 
some  such  creed  as  this: 

That  he  was  very  clever. 

That  he  ought  to  make  his  fortune. 

That  a  great  many  things  were  very  pleasant 
—  beautiful  things  among  the  rest. 

That  it  was  a  fine  thing  to  be  "superior," 
gentleman-like,  generous,  and  courageous. 


4  Yeast 

That  a  man  ought  to  be  religious. 

And  left  college  with  a  good  smattering  of 
classics  and  mathematics,  picked  up  in  the  inter- 
vals of  boat-racing  and  hunting,  and  much  the 
same  creed  as  he  brought  with  him,  except  in 
regard  to  the  last  article.  The  scenery-and- 
natural-history  mania  was  now  somewhat  at  a 
discount.  He  had  discovered  a  new  natural 
object,  including  in  itself  all  —  more  than  all  — 
yet  found  beauties  and  wonders  —  woman  1 

Draw,  draw  the  veil  and  weep,  guardian  angel  1 
if  such  there  be.  What  was  to  be  expected? 
Pleasant  things  were  pleasant  —  there  was  no 
doubt  of  that,  whatever  else  might  be  doubtful. 
He  had  read  Byron  by  stealth;  he  had  been 
flogged  into  reading  Ovid  and  Tibullus;  and 
commanded  by  his  private  tutor  to  read  Martial 
and  Juvenal  "for  the  improvement  of  his  style." 
All  conversation  on  the  subject  of  love  had  been 
prudishly  avoided,  as  usual,  by  his  parents  and 
teacher.  The  parts  of  the  Bible  which  spoke  of 
it  had  been  always  kept  out  of  his  sight.  Love 
had  been  to  him,  practically,  ground  tabooed  and 
"  carnal. "  What  was  to  be  expected  ?  Just  what 
happened  —  if  woman's  beauty  had  nothing  holy 
in  it,  why  should  his  fondness  for  it  ?  Just  what 
happens  every  day  —  that  he  had  to  sow  his  wild 
oats  for  himself,  and  eat  the  fruit  thereof,  and 
the  dirt  thereof  also. 

O  fathers !  fathers !  and  you,  clergymen,  who 
monopolize  education !  either  tell  boys  the  truth 
about  love,  or  do  not  put  into  their  hands,  with- 
out note  or  comment,  the  foul  devil's  lies  about 
it,  which  make  up  the  mass  of  the  Latin  poets  — 
and  then  go,  fresh  from  teaching  Juvenal  and 


The  Philosophy  of  Fox-Hunting       5 

Ovid,  to  declaim  at  Exeter  Hall  against  poor 
Peter  Dens's  well-meaning  prurience !  Had  we 
not  better  take  the  beam  out  of  our  own  eye 
before  we  meddle  with  the  mote  in  the  Jesuit's? 

But  where  is  my  description  of  the  weather 
all  this  time? 

I  cannot,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  give  any  very 
cheerful  account  of  the  weather  that  day.  But 
what  matter  ?  Are  Englishmen  hedge-gnats,  who 
only  take  their  sport  when  the  sun  shines  ?  Is  it 
not,  on  the  contrary,  symbolical  of  our  national 
character,  that  almost  all  our  field  amusements 
are  wintry  ones?  Our  fowling,  our  hunting,  our 
punt-shooting  (pastime  for  Hymir  himself  and 
the  frost  giants)  —  our  golf  and  skating, — our 
very  cricket,  and  boat-racing,  and  jack  and  gray- 
ling fishing,  carried  on  till  we  are  fairly  frozen 
out.  We  are  a  stern  people,  and  winter  suits  us. 
Nature  then  retires  modestly  into  the  background, 
and  spares  us  the  obtrusive  glitter  of  summer, 
leaving  us  to  think  and  work;  and  therefore 
it  happens  that  in  England  it  may  be  taken  as 
a  general  rule,  that  whenever  all  the  rest  of 
the  world  is  in-doors,  we  are  out  and  busy,  and 
on  the  whole,  the  worse  the  day,  the  better  the 
deed. 

The  weather  that  day,  the  first  day  Lancelot 
ever  saw  his  beloved,  was  truly  national.  A 
silent,  dim,  distanceless,  steaming,  rotting  day 
in  March.  The  last  brown  oak-leaf  which  had 
stood  out  the  winter's  frost,  spun  and  quivered 
plump  down,  and  then  lay,  as  if  ashamed  to  have 
broken  for  a  moment  the  ghastly  stillness,  like 
an  awkward  guest  at  a  great  dumb  dinner-party. 
A  cold  suck  of  wind  just  proved  its  existence,  by 


6  Yeast 

toothaches  on  the  north  side  of  all  faces.  The 
spiders  having  been  weather-bewitched  the  night 
before,  had  unanimously  agreed  to  cover  every 
brake  and  brier  with  gossamer-cradles,  and  never 
a  fly  to  be  caught  in  them;  like  Manchester 
cotton-spinners  madly  glutting  the  markets  in  the 
teeth  of  "no  demand."  The  steam  crawled  out 
of  the  dank  turf,  and  reeked  off  the  flanks  and 
nostrils  of  the  shivering  horses,  and  clung  with 
clammy  paws  to  frosted  hats  and  dripping  boughs. 
A  soulless,  skyless,  catarrhal  day,  as  if  that 
bustling  dowager,  old  mother  Earth  —  what  with 
match-making  in  spring,  and  fetes  champetres  in 
summer,  and  dinner-giving  in  autumn  —  was  fairly 
worn  out,  and  put  to  bed  with  the  influenza, 
under  wet  blankets  and  the  cold-water  cure. 

There  sat  Lancelot  by  the  cover-side,  his  knees 
aching  with  cold  and  wet,  thanking  his  stars  that 
he  was  not  one  of  the  whippers-in  who  were 
lashing  about  in  the  dripping  cover,  laying  up  for 
themselves,  in  catering  for  the  amusement  of 
their  betters,  a  probable  old  age  of  bed-ridden 
torture,  in  the  form  of  rheumatic  gout.  Not  that 
he  was  at  all  happy  —  indeed,  he  had  no  reason  to 
be  so;  for,  first,  the  hounds  would  not  find;  next, 
he  had  left  half-finished  at  home  a  review  article 
on  the  Silurian  System,  which  he  had  solemnly 
promised  an  abject  and  beseeching  editor  to 
send  to  post  that  night;  next,  he  was  on  the 
windward  side  of  the  cover,  and  dare  not  light  a 
cigar;  and  lastly,  his  mucous  membrane  in  gen- 
eral was  not  in  the  happiest  condition,  seeing 
that  he  had  been  dining  the  evening  before  with 
Mr.  Vaurien  of  Rottenpalings,  a  young  gentle- 
man of  a  convivial  and  melodious  turn  of  mind, 


The  Philosophy  of  Fox-Hunting       7 

who  sang  —  and  played  also  —  as  singing  men  are 
wont  —  in  more  senses  than  one,  and  had  "  ladies 
and  gentlemen"  down  from  town  to  stay  with 
him ;  and  they  sang  and  played  too;  and  so  some- 
how between  vingt-un  and  champagne-punch, 
Lancelot  had  not  arrived  at  home  till  seven 
o'clock  that  morning,  and  was  in  a  fit  state  to 
appreciate  the  feelings  of  our  grandfathers,  when, 
after  the  third  bottle  of  port,  they  used  to  put 
the  black  silk  tights  into  their  pockets,  slip  on 
the  leathers  and  boots,  and  ride  the  crop-tailed 
hack  thirty  miles  on  a  winter's  night,  to  meet 
the  hounds  in  the  next  county  by  ten  in  the  morn- 
ing. They  are  "  gone  down  to  Hades,  even  many 
stalwart  souls  of  heroes,"  with  John  Warde  of 
Squerries  at  their  head  —  the  fathers  of  the  men 
who  conquered  at  Waterloo;  and  we  their  degen- 
erate grandsons  are  left  instead,  with  puny  arms, 
and  polished  leather  boots,  and  a  considerable 
taint  of  hereditary  diseas.,,  to  sit  in  club-houses, 
and  celebrate  the  pr^gre-s  of  the  species. 

Whether  Lancelot  or  his  horse,  under  these 
depressing  circumstances,  fell  asleep;  or  whether 
thoughts  pertaining  to  such  a  life,  and  its  fitness 
for  a  clever  and  ardent  young  fellow  in  the  nine- 
teenth century,  became  gradually  too  painful, 
and  had  to  be  peremptorily  shaken  off,  this 
deponent  sayeth  not;  but  certainly,  after  five- 
and-thirty  minutes  of  idleness  and  shivering, 
Lancelot  opened  his  eyes  with  a  sudden  start, 
and  struck  spurs  into  his  hunter  without  due 
cause  shown;  whereat  Shiver-the-timbers,  who 
was  no  Griselda  in  temper  —  (Lancelot  had 
bought  him  out  of  the  Pytchley  for  half  his  value, 
as  unridably  vicious,  when  he  had  killed  a 


8  Yeast 

groom,  and  fallen  backwards  on  a  rough-rider, 
the  first  season  after  he  came  up  from  Horncastle) 
—  responded  by  a  furious  kick  or  two,  threw  his 
head  up,  put  his  foot  into  a  drain,  and  sprawled 
down  all  but  on  his  nose,  pitching  Lancelot  un- 
awares shamefully  on  the  pommel  of  his  saddle. 
A  certain  fatality,  by  the  by,  had  lately  attended 
all  Lancelot's  efforts  to  shine;  he  never  bought 
a  new  coat  without  tearing  it  mysteriously  next 
day,  or  tried  to  make  a  joke  without  bursting  out 
coughing  in  the  middle  .  .  .  and  now  the  whole 
field  were  looking  on  at  his  mishap;  between 
disgust  and  the  start  he  turned  almost  sick,  and 
felt  the  blood  rush  into  his  cheeks  and  forehead 
as  he  heard  a  shout  of  coarse  jovial  laughter  burst 
out  close  to  him,  and  the  old  master  of  the 
hounds,  Squire  Lavington,  roared  aloud: 

"A  pretty  sportsman  you  are,  Mr.  Smith,  to 
fall  asleep  by  the  cover-side  and  let  your  horse 
down  —  and  your  pockets,  too !  What 's  that  book 
on  the  ground  ?  Sapping  and  studying  still  ?  I 
let  nobody  come  out  with  my  hounds  with  their 
pocket  full  of  learning.  Hand  it  up  here,  Tom; 
we  '11  see  what  it  is.  French,  as  I  am  no  scholar ! 
Translate  for  us,  Colonel  Bracebridge !  " 

And,  amid  shouts  of  laughter,  the  gay  Guards- 
man read  out : 

"  St.  Francis  de  Sales :  '  Introduction  to  a 
Devout  Life. '  " 

Poor  Lancelot !  Wishing  himself  fathoms  under- 
ground, ashamed  of  his  book,  still  more  ashamed 
of  himself  for  his  shame,  he  had  to  sit  there  ten 
physical  seconds,  or  spiritual  years,  while  the 
colonel  solemnly  returned  him  the  book,  compli- 
menting him  on  the  proofs  of  its  purifying  influ- 


The  Philosophy  of  Fox-Hunting        9 

ence  which  he  had  given  the  night  before,  in 
helping  to  throw  the  turnpike-gate  into  the 
river. 

But  "all  things  do  end,"  and  so  did  this;  and 
the  silence  of  the  hounds  also ;  and  a  faint  but 
knowing  whimper  drove  St.  Francis  out  of  all 
heads,  and  Lancelot  began  to  stalk  slowly  with  a 
dozen  horsemen  up  the  wood-ride,  to  a  fitful 
accompaniment  of  wandering  hound-music,  where 
the  choristers  were  as  invisible  as  nightingales 
among  the  thick  cover.  And  hark!  just  as  the 
book  was  returned  to  his  pocket,  the  sweet  hub- 
bub suddenly  crashed  out  into  one  jubilant  shriek, 
and  then  swept  away  fainter  and  fainter  among 
the  trees.  The  walk  became  a  trot  —  the  trot  a 
canter.  Then  a  faint  melancholy  shout  at  a  dis- 
tance, answered  by  a  "Stole  away!"  from  the 
fields;  a  doleful  "toot!"  of  the  horn;  the  dull 
thunder  of  many  horse-hoofs  rolling  along  the 
farther  woodside.  Then  red  coats,  flashing  like 
sparks  of  fire  across  the  gray  gap  of  mist  at  the 
ride's-mouth,  then  a  whipper-in,  bringing  up  a 
belated  hound,  burst  into  the  pathway,  smashing 
and  plunging,  with  shut  eyes,  through  ash-saplings 
and  hassock-grass;  then  a  fat  farmer,  sedulously 
pounding  through  the  mud,  was  overtaken  and 
bespattered  in  spite  of  all  his  struggles;  —  until 
the  line  streamed  out  into  the  wide  rushy  pasture, 
startling  up  pewits  and  curlews,  as  horsemen 
poured  in  from  every  side,  and  cunning  old  farmers 
rode  off  at  inexplicable  angles  to  some  well- 
known  haunts  of  pug:  and  right  ahead,  chiming 
and  jangling  sweet  madness,  the  dappled  pack 
glanced  and  wavered  through  the  veil  of  soft  gray 
mist. 

B— vol.  v 


I  o  Yeast 

"What's  the  use  of  this  hurry?"  growled 
Lancelot.  "They  will  all  be  back  again.  I 
never  have  the  luck  to  see  a  run." 

But  no;  on  and  on  —  down  the  wind  and  down 
the  vale;  and  the  canter  became  a  gallop,  and  the 
gallop  a  long  straining  stride;  and  a  hundred 
horse-hoofs  crackled  like  flame  among  the  stub- 
bles, and  thundered  fetlock-deep  along  the  heavy 
meadows;  and  every  fence  thinned  the  cavalcade, 
till  the  madness  began  to  stir  all  bloods,  and  with 
grim  earnest  silent  faces,  the  initiated  few  settled 
themselves  to  their  work,  and  with  the  colonel 
and  Lancelot  at  their  head,  "  took  their  pleasure 
sadly,  after  the  manner  of  their  nation,"  as  old 
Froissart  has  it. 


"  Thorough  bush,  through  brier, 
Thorough  park,  through  pale ; " 

till  the  rolling  grass-lands  spread  out  into  flat 
black  open  fallows,  crossed  with  grassy  baulks, 
and  here  and  there  a  long  melancholy  line  of  tall 
elms,  while  before  them  the  high  chalk  ranges 
gleamed  above  the  mist  like  a  vast  wall  of  emerald 
enamelled  with  snow,  and  the  winding  river 
glittering  at  their  feet. 

"  A  polite  fox ! "  observed  the  colonel.  "  He 's 
leading  the  squire  straight  home  to  Whitford, 
just  in  time  for  dinner." 

They  were  in  the  last  meadow,  with  the  stream 
before  them.  A  line  of  struggling  heads  in  the 
swollen  and  milky  current  showed  the  hounds' 
opinion  of  Reynard's  course.  The  sportsmen 
galloped  off  towards  the  nearest  bridge.  Brace- 


The  Philosophy  of  Fox-Hunting     1 1 

bridge  looked  back  at  Lancelot,  who  had  been 
keeping  by  his  side  in  sulky  rivalry,  following 
him  successfully  through  all  manner  of  desperate 
places,  and  more  and  more  angry  with  himself 
and  the  guiltless  colonel,  because  he  only  fol- 
lowed, while  the  colonel's  quicker  and  unembar- 
rassed wit,  which  lived  wholly  in  the  present 
moment,  saw  long  before  Lancelot,  "how  to  cut 
out  his  work,"  in  every  field. 

"I  sha'n't  go  round,"  quietly  observed  the 
colonel. 

"  Do  you  fancy  I  shall  ? "  growled  Lancelot, 
who  took  for  granted  —  poor  thin-skinned  soul ! 
that  the  words  were  meant  as  a  hit  at  himself. 

"You're  a  brace  of  geese,"  politely  observed 
the  old  squire;  "and  you'll  find  it  out  in  rheu- 
matic fever.  There  —  '  one  fool  makes  many ! ' 
You'll  kill  Smith  before  you're  done,  colonel!" 
and  the  old  man  wheeled  away  up  the  meadow, 
as  Bracebridge  shouted  after  him : 

"  Oh,  he  '11  make  a  fine  rider  —  in  time ! " 

"  In  time ! "  Lancelot  could  have  knocked  the 
unsuspecting  colonel  down  for  the  word.  It  just 
expressed  the  contrast,  which  had  fretted  him 
ever  since  he  began  to  hunt  with  the  Whitford 
Priors  hounds.  The  colonel's  long  practice  and 
consummate  skill  in  all  he  took  in  hand,  —  his 
experience  of  all  society,  from  the  prairie  Indian 
to  Crockford's,  from  the  prize-ring  to  the  conti- 
nental courts,  —  his  varied  and  ready  store  of 
information  and  anecdote,  —  the  harmony  and 
completeness  of  the  man,  —  his  consistency  with 
his  own  small  ideal,  and  his  consequent  apparent 
superiority  everywhere  and  in  everything  to  the 
huge  awkward  Titan-cub,  who,  though  immeasur- 


1 2  Yeast 

ably  beyond  Bracebridge  in  intellect  and  heart, 
was  still  in  a  state  of  convulsive  dyspepsia, 
"swallowing  formulae,"  and  daily  well-nigh 
choked;  diseased  throughout  with  that  morbid 
self-consciousness  and  lust  of  praise,  for  which 
God  prepares,  with  His  elect,  a  bitter  cure. 
Alas !  poor  Lancelot !  an  unlicked  bear,  "  with  all 
his  sorrows  before  him ! "  — 

"Come  along,"  quoth  Bracebridge,  between 
snatches  of  a  tune,  his  coolness  maddening 
Lancelot.  "Old  Lavington  will  find  us  dry 
clothes,  a  bottle  of  port,  and  a  brace  of  charming 
daughters,  at  the  Priory.  In  with  you,  little 
Mustang  of  the  prairie!  Neck  or  nothing!"  — 

And  in  an  instant  the  small  wiry  American, 
and  the  huge  Horncastle-bred  hunter,  were  wal- 
lowing and  staggering  in  the  yeasty  stream,  till 
they  floated  into  a  deep  reach,  and  swam  steadily 
down  to  a  low  place  in  the  bank.  They  crossed 
the  stream,  passed  the  Priory  shrubberies,  leapt 
the  gate  into  the  park,  and  then  on  and  upward, 
called  by  the  unseen  Ariel's  music  before  them. 
—  Up,  into  the  hills ;  past  white  crumbling  chalk- 
pits, fringed  with  feathered  juniper  and  tottering 
ashes,  their  floors  strewed  with  knolls  of  fallen 
soil  and  vegetation,  like  wooded  islets  in  a  sea  of 
milk.  —  Up,  between  steep  ridges  of  tuft  crested 
with  black  fir-woods  and  silver  beech,  and  here 
and  there  a  huge  yew  standing  out  alone,  the 
advanced  sentry  of  the  forest,  with  its  luscious 
fretwork  of  green  velvet,  like  a  mountain  of 
Gothic  spires  and  pinnacles,  all  glittering  and 
steaming  as  the  sun  drank  up  the  dew-drops. 
The  lark  sprang  upward  into  song,  and  called 
merrily  to  the  new-opened  sunbeams,  while  the 


The  Philosophy  of  Fox-Hunting      1 3 

wreaths  and  flakes  of  mist  lingered  reluctantly 
about  the  hollows,  and  clung  with  dewy  fingers 
to  every  knoll  and  belt  of  pine.  —  Up  into  the 
labyrinthine  bosom  of  the  hills,  —  but  who  can 
describe  them?  Is  not  all  nature  indescribable? 
every  leaf  infinite  and  transcendental?  How 
much  more  those  mighty  downs,  with  their  enor- 
mous sheets  of  spotless  turf,  where  the  dizzy  eye 
loses  all  standard  of  size  and  distance  before  the 
awful  simplicity,  the  delicate  vastness,  of  those 
grand  curves  and  swells,  soft  as  the  outlines  of  a 
Greek  Venus,  as  if  the  great  goddess-mother 
Hertha  had  laid  herself  down  among  the  hills 
to  sleep,  her  Titan  limbs  wrapt  in  a  thin  veil  of 
silvery  green. 

Up,  into  a  vast  amphitheatre  of  sward,  whose 
walls  banked  out  the  narrow  sky  above.  And 
here,  in  the  focus  of  the  huge  ring,  an  object 
appeared  which  stirred  strange  melancholy  in 
Lancelot,  —  a  little  chapel,  ivy-grown,  girded 
with  a  few  yews,  and  elders,  and  grassy  graves. 
A  climbing  rose  over  the  porch,  and  iron  railings 
round  the  churchyard,  told  of  human  care;  and 
from  the  graveyard  itself  burst  up  one  of  those 
noble  springs  known  as  winter-bournes  in  the 
chalk  ranges,  which,  awakened  in  autumn  from 
the  abysses  to  which  it  had  shrunk  during  the 
summer's  drought,  was  hurrying  down  upon  its 
six  months'  course,  a  broad  sheet  of  oily  silver 
over  a  temporary  channel  of  smooth  greensward. 

The  hounds  had  checked  in  the  woods  behind ; 
now  they  poured  down  the  hillside,  so  close 
together  "  that  you  might  have  covered  them  with 
a  sheet,"  straight  for  the  little  chapel. 

A  saddened  tvne  of  feeling  spread  itself  through 


1 4  Yeast 

Lancelot's  heart.  There  were  the  everlasting 
hills  around,  even  as  they  had  grown  and  grown 
for  countless  ages,  beneath  the  still  depths  of  the 
primeval  chalk  ocean,  in  the  milky  youth  of  this 
great  English  land.  And  here  was  he,  the  insect 
of  a  day,  fox-hunting  upon  them!  He  felt  ashamed, 
and  more  ashamed  when  the  inner  voice  whis- 
pered, "  Fox-hunting  is  not  the  shame  —  thou 
art  the  shame.  If  thou  art  the  insect  of  a  day,  it 
is  thy  sin  that  thou  art  one. " 

And  his  sadness,  foolish  as  it  may  seem,  grew 
as  he  watched  a  brown  speck  fleet  rapidly  up  the 
opposite  hill,  and  heard  a  gay  view-halloo  burst 
from  the  colonel  at  his  side.  The  chase  lost  its 
charm  for  him  the  moment  the  game  was  seen. 
Then  vanished  that  mysterious  delight  of  pursu- 
ing an  invisible  object,  which  gives  to  hunting 
and  fishing  their  unutterable  and  almost  spiritual 
charm ;  which  made  Shakespeare  a  nightly  poacher ; 
Davy  and  Chantrey  the  patriarchs  of  fly-fishing; 
by  which  the  twelve-foot  rod  is  transfigured  into 
an  enchanter's  wand,  potent  over  the  unseen 
wonders  of  the  water-world,  to  "call  up  spirits 
from  the  vasty  deep,"  which  will  really  "come 
if  you  do  call  for  them  "  —  at  least  if  the  conjura- 
tion be  orthodox  —  and  they  there.  That  spell 
was  broken  by  the  sight  of  poor  wearied  pug,  his 
once  gracefully-floating  brush  all  draggled  and 
drooping,  as  he  toiled  up  the  sheep-paths  towards 
the  open  down  above. 

But  Lancelot's  sadness  reached  its  crisis,  as 
he  met  the  hounds  just  outside  the  churchyard. 
Another  moment  —  they  had  leaped  the  rails; 
and  there  they  swept  round  under  the  gray  wall, 
leaping  and  yelling,  like  Berserk  fiends  among 


The  Philosophy  of  Fox-Hunting     1 5 

the  frowning  tombstones,  over  the  cradles  of  the 
quiet  dead. 

Lancelot  shuddered  —  the  thing  was  not  wrong 
—  "it  was  no  one's  fault,"  —  but  there  was  a 
ghastly  discord  in  it.  Peace  and  strife,  time 
and  eternity  —  the  mad  noisy  flesh,  and  the  silent 
immortal  spirit, — the  frivolous  game  of  life's 
outside  show,  and  the  terrible  earnest  of  its 
inward  abysses,  jarred  together  without  and 
within  him.  He  pulled  his  horse  up  violently, 
and  stood  as  if  rooted  to  the  place,  gazing  at  he 
knew  not  what. 

The  hounds  caught  sight  of  the  fox,  burst  into 
one  frantic  shriek  of  joy  —  and  then  a  sudden  and 
ghastly  stillness,  as,  mute  and  breathless,  they 
toiled  up  the  hillside,  gaining  on  their  victim  at 
every  stride.  The  patter  of  the  horse-hoofs  and 
the  rattle  of  rolling  flints  died  away  above. 
Lancelot  looked  up,  startled  at  the  silence; 
laughed  aloud,  he  knew  not  why,  and  sat,  regard- 
less of  his  pawing  and  straining  horse,  still  star- 
ing at  the  chapel  and  the  graves. 

On  a  sudden  the  chapel-door  opened,  and  a 
figure  timidly  yet  loftily  stepped  out  without 
observing  himi  and  suddenly  turning  round,  met 
him  full,  face  to  face,  and  stood  fixed  with  sur- 
prise as  completely  as  Lancelot  himself. 

That  face  and  figure,  and  the  spirit  which  spoke 
through  them,  entered  his  heart  at  once,  never 
again  to  leave  it.  Her  features  were  aquiline 
and  grand,  without  a  shade  of  harshness ;  her  eyes 
shone  out  like  twain  lakes  of  still  azure,  beneath 
a  broad  marble  cliff  of  polished  forehead;  her 
rich  chestnut  hair  rippled  downward  round  the 
towering  neck.  With  her  perfect  masque  and 


1 6  Yeast 

queenly  figure,  and  earnest,  upward  gaze,  she 
might  have  been  the  very  model  from  which 
Raphael  conceived  his  glorious  St.  Catherine  — 
the  ideal  of  the  highest  womanly  genius,  softened 
into  self-forgetfulness  by  girlish  devotion.  She 
was  simply,  almost  coarsely  dressed;  but  a 
glance  told  him  that  she  was  a  lady,  by  the 
courtesy  of  man  as  well  as  by  the  will  of  God. 

They  gazed  one  moment  more  at  each  other  — 
but  what  is  time  to  spirits  ?  With  them,  as  with 
their  Father,  "one  day  is  as  a  thousand  years.'* 
But  that  eye-wedlock  was  cut  short  the  next 
instant  by  the  decided  interference  of  the  horse, 
who,  thoroughly  disgusted  at  his  master's  whole 
conduct,  gave  a  significant  shake  of  his  head,  and 
shamming  frightened  (as  both  women  and  horses 
will  do  when  only  cross),  commenced  a  war- 
dance,  which  drove  Argemone  Lavington  into 
the  porch,  and  gave  the  bewildered  Lancelot  an 
excuse  for  dashing  madly  up  the  hill  after  his 
companions. 

"  What  a  horrible  ugly  face ! "  said  Argemone 
to  herself,  "  but  so  clever,  and  so  unhappy ! " 

Blest  pity !  true  mother  of  that  graceless  scamp, 
young  Love,  who  is  ashamed  of  his  real  pedigree, 
and  swears  to  this  day  that  he  is  the  child  of 
Venus !  —  the  coxcomb ! 

[Here,  for  the  sake  of  the  reader,  we  omit,  or 
rather  postpone  a  long  dissertation  on  the  famous 
Erototheogonic  chorus  of  Aristophanes 's  Birds, 
with  illustrations  taken  from  all  earth  and  heaven, 
from  the  Vedas  and  Proclus  to  Jacob  Behmen 
and  Saint  Theresa.] 

" The  dichotomy  of  Lancelot's  personality,"  as 


The  Philosophy  of  Fox-Hunting      17 

the  Germans  would  call  it,  returned  as  he  dashed 
on.  His  understanding  was  trying  to  ride,  while 
his  spirit  was  left  behind  with  Argemone.  Hence 
loose  reins  and  a  looser  seat.  He  rolled  about 
like  a  tipsy  man,  holding  on,  in  fact,  far  more  by 
his  spurs  than  by  his  knees,  to  the  utter  infuria- 
tion  of  Shiver-the-timbers,  who  kicked  and  snorted 
over  the  down  like  one  of  Mephistopheles's 
Demon-steeds.  They  had  mounted  the  hill  — 
the  deer  fled  before  them  in  terror' — they  neared 
the  park  palings.  In  the  road  beyond  them  the 
hounds  were  just  killing  their  fox,  struggling 
and  growling  in  fierce  groups  for  the  red  gobbets 
of  fur,  a  panting,  steaming  ring  of  horses  round 
them.  Half  a  dozen  voices  hailed  him  as  he 
came  up. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?  "  "  He  '11  tumble  off ! " 
"  He  's  had  a  fall ! "  "  No,  he  has  n't ! "  "  'Ware 
hounds,  man  alive ! "  "  He  '11  break  his  neck ! " 

"He  has  broken  it,  at  last!"  shouted  the 
colonel,  as  Shiver-the-timbers  rushed  at  the  high 
pales,  out  of  breath,  and  blind  with  rage.  Lance- 
lot saw  and  heard  nothing  till  he  was  awakened 
from  his  dream  by  the  long  heave  of  the  huge 
brute's  shoulder,  and  the  maddening  sensation  of 
sweeping  through  the  air  over  the  fence.  He 
started,  checked  the  curb,  the  horse  threw  up  his 
head,  fulfilling  his  name  by  driving  his  knees 
like  a  battering-ram  against  the  pales  —  the  top- 
bar  bent  like  a  withe,  flew  out  into  a  hundred 
splinters,  and  man  and  horse  rolled  over  headlong 
into  the  hard  flint-road. 

For  one  long  sickening  second  Lancelot  watched 
the  blue  sky  between  his  own  knees.  Then  a 
crash  as  if  a  shell  had  burst  in  his  face  —  a 


1 8  Yeast 

horrible  grind  —  a  sheet  of  flame  —  and  the  black- 
ness of  night.  Did  you  ever  feel  it,  reader? 

When  he  awoke,  he  found  himself  lying  in 
bed,  with  Squire  Lavington  sitting  by  him. 
There  was  real  sorrow  in  the  old  man's  face. 
"Come  to  himself!"  and  a  great  joyful  oath 
rolled  out.  "  The  boldest  rider  of  them  all !  I 
wouldn't  have  lost  him  for  a  dozen  ready-made 
spick  and  span  Colonel  Bracebridges ! " 

"Quite  right,  squire!"  answered  a  laughing 
voice  from  behind  the  curtain.  "  Smith  has  a 
clear  two  thousand  a  year,  and  I  live  by  my 
wits!" 


CHAPTER  II 

SPRING  YEARNINGS 

1  HEARD  a  story  the  other  day  of  our  most 
earnest  and  genial  humorist,  who  is  just  now 
proving  himself  also  our  most  earnest  and  genial 
novelist.  "  I  like  your  novel  exceedingly,"  said  a 
lady;  "the  characters  are  so  natural  —  all  but  the 
baronet,  and  he  surely  is  overdrawn:  it  is  impos- 
sible to  find  such  coarseness  in  his  rank  of  life !  " 

The  artist  laughed.  "  And  that  character,"  said 
he,  "  is  almost  the  only  exact  portrait  in  the  whole 
book." 

So  it  is.  People  do  not  see  the  strange  things 
which  pass  them  every  day.  "  The  romance  of 
real  life  "  is  only  one  to  the  romantic  spirit.  And 
then  they  set  up  for  critics,  instead  of  pupils ;  as 
if  the  artist's  business  was  not  just  to  see  what  they 
cannot  see  —  to  open  their  eyes  to  the  harmonies 
and  the  discords,  the  miracles  and  the  absurdities, 
which  seem  to  them  one  uniform  gray  fog  of 
commonplaces. 

Then  let  the  reader  believe,  that  whatsoever  is 
commonplace  in  my  story  is  my  own  invention. 
Whatsoever  may  seem  extravagant  or  startling  is 
most  likely  to  be  historic  fact,  else  I  should  not 
have  dared  to  write  it  down,  finding  God's  actual 
dealings  here  much  too  wonderful  to  dare  to 
invent  many  fresh  ones  for  myself. 


2O  Yeast 

Lancelot,  who  had  had  a  severe  concussion  of 
the  brain  and  a  broken  leg,  kept  his  bed  for  a  few 
weeks,  and  his  room  for  a  few  more.  Colonel 
Bracebridge  installed  himself  at  the  Priory,  and 
nursed  him  with  indefatigable  good-humor  and 
few  thanks.  He  brought  Lancelot  his  breakfast 
before  hunting,  described  the  run  to  him  when  he 
returned,  read  him  to  sleep,  told  him  stories  of 
grizzly  bear  and  buffalo  hunts,  made  him  laugh  in 
spite  of  himself  at  extempore  comic  medleys,  kept 
his  tables  covered  with  flowers  from  the  conserva- 
tory, warmed  his  chocolate  and  even  his  bed. 
Nothing  came  amiss  to  him,  and  he  to  nothing. 
Lancelot  longed  at  first  every  hour  to  be  rid  of 
him,  and  eyed  him  about  the  room  as  a  bulldog 
does  the  monkey  who  rides  him.  In  his  dreams 
he  was  Sinbad  the  Sailor,  and  Bracebridge  the  Old 
Man  of  the  Sea ;  but  he  could  not  hold  out  against 
the  colonel's  merry  bustling  kindliness,  and  the 
almost  womanish  tenderness  of  his  nursing.  The 
ice  thawed  rapidly;  and  one  evening  it  split  up 
altogether,  when  Bracebridge,  who  was  sitting 
drawing  by  Lancelot's  sofa,  instead  of  amusing 
himself  with  the  ladies  below,  suddenly  threw  his 
pencil  into  the  fire,  and  broke  out,  Apropos  de  rien : 

"What  a  strange  pair  we  are,  Smith!  I  think 
you  just  the  best  fellow  I  ever  met,  and  you  hate 
me  like  poison  —  you  can't  deny  it." 

There  was  something  in  the  colonel's  tone  so 
utterly  different  from  his  usual  courtly  and 
measured  speech,  that  Lancelot  was  taken  com- 
pletely by  surprise,  and  stammered  out: 

"I  —  I  —  I  —  no  —  no.  I  know  I  am  very  fool- 
ish—  ungrateful.  But  I  do  hate  you,"  he  said, 
with  a  sudden  impulse,  "  and  I  '11  tell  you  why." 


Spring  Yearnings  21 

"  Give  me  your  hand,"  quoth  the  colonel :  "  I  like 
that  Now  we  shall  see  our  way  with  each  other, 
at  least." 

"  Because,"  said  Lancelot,  slowly,  "  because  you 
are  cleverer  than  I,  readier  than  I,  superior  to  me 
in  every  point." 

The  colonel  laughed,  not  quite  merrily.  Lance- 
lot went  on,  holding  down  his  shaggy  brows. 

"  I  am  a  brute  and  an  ass  !  —  And  yet  I  do  not 
like  to  tell  you  so.  For  if  I  am  an  ass,  what  are 
you  ?  " 

"Heyday!" 

"Look  here. — I  am  wasting  my  time  and  brains 
on  ribaldry,  but  I  am  worth  nothing  better — at 
least,  I  think  so  at  times;  but  you,  who  can  do 
anything  you  put  your  hand  to,  what  business 
have  you,  in  the  devil's  name,  to  be  throwing  your- 
self away  on  gimcracks  and  fox-hunting  foolery? 
Heavens  !  If  I  had  your  talents,  I  'd  be  —  I  'd 
make  a  name  for  myself  before  I  died,  if  I  died  to 
make  it" 

The  colonel  griped  his  hand  hard,  rose,  and 
looked  out  of  the  window  for  a  few  minutes. 
There  was  a  dead,  brooding  silence,  till  he  turned 
to  Lancelot: 

"  Mr.  Smith,  I  thank  you  for  your  honesty,  but 
good  advice  may  come  too  late.  I  am  no  saint, 
and  God  only  knows  how  much  less  of  one  I  may 
become;  but  mark  my  words,  —  if  you  are  ever 
tempted  by  passion,  and  vanity,  and  fine  ladies, 
to  form  liaisons,  as  the  Jezebels  call  them,  snares, 
and  nets,  and  labyrinths  of  blind  ditches,  to  keep 
you  down  through  life,  stumbling  and  grovelling, 
hating  yourself  and  hating  the  chain  to  which  you 
cling  —  in  that  hour  pray  —  pray  as  if  the  devil 


22  Yeast 

had  you  by  the  throat  —  to  Almighty  God,  to 
help  you  out  of  that  cursed  slough !  There  is 
nothing  else  for  it !  —  pray,  I  tell  you  ! " 

There  was  a  terrible  earnestness  about  the 
guardsman's  face  which  could  not  be  mistaken. 
Lancelot  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  then 
dropped  his  eyes  ashamed,  as  if  he  had  intruded 
on  the  speaker's  confidence  by  witnessing  his 
emotion. 

In  a  moment  the  colonel  had  returned  to  his 
smile  and  his  polish. 

"And  now,  my  dear  invalid,  I  must  beg  your 
pardon  for  sermonizing.  What  do  you  say  to  a 
game  of  tcarti '  ?  We  must  play  for  love,  or  we 
shall  excite  ourselves,  and  scandalize  Mrs.  Laving- 
ton's  piety."  And  the  colonel  pulled  a  pack  of 
cards  out  of  his  pocket,  and  seeing  that  Lancelot 
was  too  thoughtful  for  play,  commenced  all  man- 
ner of  juggler's  tricks,  and  chuckled  over  them 
like  any  schoolboy. 

"  Happy  man !  "  thought  Lancelot,  "  to  have 
the  strength  of  will  which  can  thrust  its  thoughts 
away  once  and  for  all." 

No,  Lancelot !  more  happy  are  they  whom  God 
will  not  allow  to  thrust  their  thoughts  from  them 
till  the  bitter  draught  has  done  its  work. 

From  that  day,  however,  there  was  a  cordial 
understanding  between  the  two.  They  never  al- 
luded to  the  subject;  but  they  had  known  the 
bottom  of  each  other's  heart.  Lancelot's  sick- 
room was  now  pleasant  enough,  and  he  drank  in 
daily  his  new  friend's  perpetual  stream  of  anec- 
dote, till  March  and  hunting  were  past,  and  April 
was  half  over.  The  old  squire  came  up  after 
dinner  regularly  (during  March  he  had  hunted 


Spring  Yearnings  23 

every  day,  and  slept  every  evening) ;  and  the  trio 
chatted  along  merrily  enough,  by  the  help  of  whist 
and  backgammon,  upon  the  surface  of  this  little 
island  of  life,  —  which  is,  like  Sinbad's,  after  all 
only  the  back  of  a  floating  whale,  ready  to  dive  at 
any  moment.  —  And  then  ? 

But  what  was  Argemone  doing  all  this  time? 
Argemone  was  busy  in  her  boudoir  (too  often  a 
true  boudoir  to  her)  among  books  and  statuettes, 
and  dried  flowers,  fancying  herself,  and  not  un- 
fairly, very  intellectual.  She  had  four  new  manias 
every  year;  her  last  winter's  one  had  been  that 
bottle-and-squirt  mania,  miscalled  chemistry;  her 
spring  madness  was  for  the  Greek  drama.  She 
had  devoured  Schlegel's  lectures,  and  thought 
them  divine;  and  now  she  was  hard  at  work  on 
Sophocles,  with  a  little  help  from  translations,  and 
thought  she  understood  him  every  word.  Then 
she  was  somewhat  High-Church  in  her  notions, 
and  used  to  go  up  every  Wednesday  and  Friday 
to  the  chapel  in  the  hills,  where  Lancelot  had  met 
her,  for  an  hour's  mystic  devotion,  set  off  by  a 
little  graceful  asceticism.  As  for  Lancelot,  she 
never  thought  of  him  but  as  an  empty-headed  fox- 
hunter  who  had  met  with  his  deserts;  and  the 
brilliant  accounts  which  the  all-smoothing  colonel 
gave  at  dinner  of  Lancelot's  physical  well-doing 
and  agreeable  conversation  only  made  her  set  him 
down  the  sooner  as  a  twin  clever-do-nothing  to 
the  despised  Bracebridge,  whom  she  hated  for 
keeping  her  father  in  a  roar  of  laughter. 

But  her  sister,  little  Honoria,  had  all  the  while 
been  busy  messing  and  cooking  with  her  own 
hands  for  the  invalid,  and  almost  fell  in  love  with 
the  colonel  for  his  watchful  kindness.  And  here  a 


24  Yeast 

word  about  Honoria,  to  whom  Nature,  according 
to  her  wont  with  sisters,  had  given  almost  every- 
thing which  Argemone  wanted,  and  denied  almost 
everything  which  Argemone  had,  except  beauty. 
And  even  in  that,  the  many-sided  mother  had 
made  her  a  perfect  contrast  to  her  sister,  —  tiny 
and  luscious,  dark-eyed  and  dark-haired ;  as  full 
of  wild  simple  passion  as  an  Italian,  thinking  little, 
except  where  she  felt  much — which  was  indeed 
everywhere;  for  she  lived  in  a  perpetual  April- 
shower  of  exaggerated  sympathy  for  all  suffering, 
•whether  in  novels  or  in  life ;  and  daily  gave  the  lie 
to  that  shallow  old  calumny  that  "fictitious  sor- 
rows harden  the  heart  to  real  ones." 

Argemone  was  almost  angry  with  her  some- 
times, when  she  trotted  whole  days  about  the 
village  from  school  to  sick-room:  perhaps  con- 
science hinted  to  her  that  her  duty,  too,  lay  rather 
there  than  among  her  luxurious  day-dreams.  But, 
alas !  though  she  would  have  indignantly  repelled 
the  accusation  of  selfishness,  yet  in  self  and  for 
self  alone  she  lived;  and  while  she  had  force  of 
will  for  any  so-called  "  self-denial,"  and  would  fast 
herself  cross  and  stupefied,  and  quite  enjoy  kneel- 
ing thinly  clad  and  barefoot  on  the  freezing 
chapel-floor  on  a  winter's  morning,  yet  her  fas- 
tidious delicacy  revolted  at  sitting,  like  Honoria, 
beside  the  bed  of  the  ploughman's  consumptive 
daughter,  in  a  reeking,  stifling,  lean-to  garret,  in 
which  had  slept  the  night  before,  the  father,  mother, 
and  two  grown-up  boys,  not  to  mention  a  new- 
married  couple,  the  sick  girl,  and,  alas !  her  baby. 
And  of  such  bedchambers  there  were  too  many  in 
Whitford  Priors. 

The  first  evening  that  Lancelot  came  downstairs, 


Spring  Yearnings  25 

Honoria  clapped  her  hands  outright  for  joy  as  he 
entered,  and  ran  up  and  down  for  ten  minutes, 
fetching  and  carrying  endless  unnecessary  cushions 
and  footstools ;  while  Argemone  greeted  him  with 
a  cold  distant  bow,  aiid  a  fine-lady  drawl  of  care- 
fully commonplace  congratulations.  Her  heart 
smote  her,  though,  as  she  saw  the  wan  face  and 
the  wild,  melancholy,  moon-struck  eyes  once  more 
glaring  through  and  through  her;  she  found  a 
comfort  in  thinking  his  stare  impertinent,  drew 
herself  up,  and  turned  away;  once,  indeed,  she 
could  not  help  listening,  as  Lancelot  thanked  Mrs. 
Lavington  for  all  the  pious  and  edifying  books 
with  which  the  good  lady  had  kept  his  room 
rather  than  his  brain  furnished  for  the  last  six 
weeks ;  he  was  going  to  say  more,  but  he  saw  the 
colonel's  quaint  foxy  eye  peering  at  him,  remem- 
bered St.  Francis  de  Sales,  and  held  his  tongue. 

But,  as  her  destiny  was,  Argemone  found  her- 
self, in  the  course  of  the  evening,  alone  with  Lance- 
lot, at  the  open  window.  It  was  a  still,  hot,  heavy 
night,  after  long  easterly  drought;  sheet-lightning 
glimmered  on  the  far  horizon  over  the  dark  wood- 
lands ;  the  coming  shower  had  sent  forward  as  his 
herald  a  whispering  draught  of  fragrant  air. 

"  What  a  delicious  shiver  is  creeping  over  those 
limes  !  "  said  Lancelot,  half  to  himself. 

The  expression  struck  Argemone:  it  was  the 
right  one,  and  it  seemed  to  open  vistas  of  feeling 
and  observation  in  the  speaker  which  she  had  not 
suspected.  There  was  a  rich  melancholy  in  the 
voice ;  —  she  turned  to  look  at  him. 

"  Ay,"  he  went  on ;  "  and  the  same  heat  which 
crisps  those  thirsty  leaves  must  breed  the  thunder- 
shower  which  cools  them?  But  so  it  is  through- 


26  Yeast 

out  the  universe :  every  yearning  proves  the 
existence  of  an  object  meant  to  satisfy  it;  the 
same  law  creates  both  the  giver  and  the  receiver, 
the  longing  and  its  home." 

"  If  one  could  but  know  sometimes  what  it  is 
for  which  one  is  longing !  "  said  Argemone,  with- 
out knowing  that  she  was  speaking  from  her 
inmost  heart :  but  thus  does  the  soul  involuntarily 
lay  bare  its  most  unspoken  depths  in  the  presence 
of  its  yet  unknown  mate,  and  then  shudders  at  its 
own  abandon  as  it  first  tries  on  the  wedding-garment 
of  Paradise. 

Lancelot  was  not  yet  past  the  era  at  which  young 
geniuses  are  apt  to  "  talk  book  "  at  little. 

"For  what?"  he  answered,  flashing  up  accord- 
ing to  his  fashion.  "  To  be ;  —  to  be  great ;  to 
have  done  one  mighty  work  before  we  die,  and 
live,  unloved  or  loved,  upon  the  lips  of  men.  For 
this  all  long  who  are  not  mere  apes  and  wall-flies." 

"  So  longed  the  founders  of  Babel,"  answered 
Argemone,  carelessly,  to  this  tirade.  She  had 
risen  a  strange  fish,  the  cunning  beauty,  and  now 
she  was  trying  her  fancy  flies  over  him  one  by 
one. 

"And  were  they  so  far  wrong?  "  answered  he. 
"  From  the  Babel  society  sprung  our  architecture, 
our  astronomy,  politics,  and  colonization.  No 
doubt  the  old  Hebrew  sheiks  thought  them  im- 
pious enough,  for  daring  to  build  brick  walls 
instead  of  keeping  to  the  good  old-fashioned  tents, 
and  gathering  themselves  into  a  nation  instead  of 
remaining  a  mere  family  horde ;  and  gave  their 
own  account  of  the  myth,  just  as  the  antediluvian 
savages  gave  theirs  of  that  strange  Eden  scene,  by 
the  common  interpretation  of  which  the  devil  is 


Spring  Yearnings  27 

made  the  first  inventor  of  modesty.  Men  are  all 
conservatives;  everything  new  is  impious,  till  we 
get  accustomed  to  it;  and  if  it  fails,  the  mob 
piously  discover  a  divine  vengeance  in  the  mis- 
chance, from  Babel  to  Catholic  Emancipation." 

Lancelot  had  stuttered  horribly  during  the  latter 
part  of  this  most  heterodox  outburst,  for  he  had  be- 
gun to  think  about  himself,  and  try  to  say  a  fine  thing, 
suspecting  all  the  while  that  it  might  not  be  true. 
But  Argemone  did  not  remark  the  stammering: 
the  new  thoughts  startled  and  pained  her;  but 
there  was  a  daring  grace  about  them.  She  tried,  as 
women  will,  to  answer  him  with  arguments,  and 
failed,  as  women  will  fail.  She  was  accustomed 
to  lay  down  the  law  a  la  Madame  de  Stael,  to 
savants  and  non-savants  and  be  heard  with  rev- 
erence, as  a  woman  should  be.  But  poor  truth- 
seeking  Lancelot  did  not  see  what  sex  had  to  do 
with  logic ;  he  flew  at  her  as  if  she  had  been  a 
very  barrister,  and  hunted  her  mercilessly  up  and 
down  through  all  sorts  of  charming  sophisms, 
as  she  begged  the  question,  and  shifted  her  ground, 
as  thoroughly  right  in  her  conclusion  as  she  was 
wrong  in  her  reasoning,  till  she  grew  quite  con- 
fused and  pettish.  —  And  then  Lancelot  suddenly 
shrank  into  his  shell,  claws  and  all,  like  an  affrighted 
soldier-crab,  hung  down  his  head,  and  stammered 
out  some  incoherencies,  —  "  N-n-not  accustomed 
to  talk  to  women  —  ladies,  I  mean.  F-forgot 
myself.  —  Pray  forgive  me !  "  And  he  looked  up, 
and  her  eyes,  half-amused,  met  his,  and  she  saw 
that  they  were  filled  with  tears. 

"  What  have  I  to  forgive  ?  "  she  said,  more  gently, 
wondering  on  what  sort  of  strange  sportsman  she 
had  fallen.  "  You  treat  me  like  an  equal ;  you  will 


28  Yeast 

deign  to  argue  with  me.  But  men  in  general  — 
oh,  they  hide  their  contempt  for  us,  if  not  their 
own  ignorance,  under  that  mask  of  chivalrous 
deference  !  "  and  then  in  the  nasal  fine  ladies'  key, 
which  was  her  shell,  as  bitter  brusquerie  was  his, 
she  added,  with  an  Amazon  queen's  toss  of  the 
head,  —  "  You  must  come  and  see  us  often.  We 
shall  suit  each  other,  I  see,  better  than  most  whom 
we  see  here." 

A  sneer  and  a  blush  passed  together  over 
Lancelot's  ugliness. 

"  What,  better  than  the  glib  Colonel  Bracebridge 
yonder?" 

"  Oh,  he  is  witty  enough,  but  he  lives  on  the 
surface  of  everything!  He  is  altogether  shallow 
and  blase.  His  good-nature  is  the  fruit  of  want  of 
feeling;  between  his  gracefulness  and  his  sneer- 
ing persiflage  he  is  a  perfect  Mephistopheles- 
Apollo." 

What  a  snare  a  decently  good  nickname  is ! 
Out  it  must  come,  though  it  carry  a  lie  on  its  back. 
But  the  truth  was,  Argemone  thought  herself  in- 
finitely superior  to  the  colonel,  for  which  simple 
reason  she  could  not  in  the  least  understand 
him. 

[By  the  by,  how  subtly  Mr.  Tennyson  has 
embodied  all  this  in  "  The  Princess."  How  he  shows 
us  the  woman,  when  she  takes  her  stand  on  the 
false  masculine  ground  of  intellect,  working  out 
her  own  moral  punishment,  by  destroying  in  her- 
self the  tender  heart  of  flesh,  which  is  either 
woman's  highest  blessing  or  her  bitterest  curse; 
how  she  loses  all  feminine  sensibility  to  the  under- 
current of  feeling  in  us  poor  world-worn,  case- 
hardened  men,  and  falls  from  pride  to  sternness, 


Spring  Yearnings  29 

from  sternness  to  sheer  inhumanity.  I  should 
have  honored  myself  by  pleading  guilty  to  stealing 
much  of  Argemone's  character  from  "  The  Princess," 
had  not  the  idea  been  conceived,  and  fairly  worked 
out,  long  before  the  appearance  of  that  noble 
poem.] 

They  said  no  more  to  each  other  that  evening. 
Argemone  was  called  to  the  piano ;  and  Lancelot 
took  up  the  "  Sporting  Magazine,"  and  read  himself 
to  sleep  till  the  party  separated  for  the  night. 

Argemone  went  up  thoughtfully  to  her  own 
room.  The  shower  had  fallen,  and  the  moon  was 
shining  bright,  while  every  budding  leaf  and  knot 
of  mould  steamed  up  cool  perfume,  borrowed  from 
the  treasures  of  the  thundercloud.  All  around 
was  working  the  infinite  mystery  of  birth  and 
growth,  of  giving  and  taking,  of  beauty  and  use. 
All  things  were  harmonious  —  all  things  reciprocal 
without.  Argemone  felt  herself  needless,  lonely, 
and  out  of  tune  with  herself  and  nature. 

She  sat  in  the  window,  and  listlessly  read  over 
to  herself  a  fragment  of  her  own  poetry : 

SAPPHO 

She  lay  among  the  myrtles  on  the  cliff; 
Above  her  glared  the  moon ;  beneath,  the  sea. 
Upon  the  white  horizon  Athos'  peak 
Weltered  in  burning  haze ;  all  airs  were  dead ; 
The  sicale  slept  among  the  tamarisk's  hair ; 
The  birds  sat  dumb  and  drooping.     Far  below 
The  lazy  sea-weed  glistened  in  the  sun : 
The  lazy  sea-fowl  dried  their  steaming  wings ; 
The  lazy  swell  crept  whispering  up  the  ledge, 
And  sank  again.     Great  Pan  was  laid  to  rest; 
And  mother  Earth  watched  by  him  as  he  slept, 
And  hushed  her  myriad  children  for  awhile. 


30  Yeast 

She  lay  among  the  myrtles  on  the  cliff; 
And  sighed  for  sleep,  for  sleep  that  would  not  hear, 
But  left  her  tossing  still :  for  night  and  day 
A  mighty  hunger  yearned  within  her  heart, 
Till  all  her  veins  ran  fever,  and  her  cheek, 
Her  long  thin  hands,  and  ivory-channell'd  feet, 
Were  wasted  with  the  wasting  of  her  soul. 
Then  peevishly  she  flung  her  on  her  face, 
And  hid  her  eyeballs  from  the  blinding  glare, 
And  fingered  at  the  grass,  and  tried  to  cool 
Her  crisp  hot  lips  against  the  crisp  hot  sward : 
And  then  she  raised  her  head,  and  upward  cast 
Wild  looks  from  homeless  eyes,  whose  liquid  light 
Gleamed  out  between-  deep  f  Ids  of  blue-black  hair, 
As  gleam  twin  lakes  between  the  purple  peaks 
Of  deep  Parnassus,  at  the  mournful  moon. 
Beside  her  lay  a  lyre.    She  snatched  the  shell, 
And  waked  wild  music  from  its  silver  strings ; 
Then  tossed  it  sadly  by,  —  "  Ah,  hush  !  "  she  cries. 
"  Dead  offspring  of  the  tortoise  and  the  mine ! 
Why  mock  my  discords  with  thine  harmonies? 
Although  a  thrice-Olympian  lot  be  thine, 
Only  to  echo  back  in  every  tone, 
The  moods  of  nobler  natures  than  thine  own." 

"  No  !  "  she  said.  "  That  soft  and  rounded  rhyme 
suits  ill  with  Sappho's  fitful  and  wayward  agonies. 
She  should  burst  out  at  once  into  wild  passionate 
life-weariness,  and  disgust  at  that  universe,  with 
whose  beauty  she  has  filled  her  eyes  in  vain,  to 
find  it  always  a  dead  picture,  unsatisfying,  unlov- 
ing—  as  I  have  found  it." 

Sweet  self-deceiver !  had  you  no  other  reason 
for  choosing  as  your  heroine  Sappho,  the  victim 
of  the  idolatry  of  intellect — -trying  in  vain  to  fill 
her  heart  with  the  friendship  of  her  own  sex,  and 
then  sinking  into  mere  passion  for  a  handsome 
boy,  and  so  down  into  self-contempt  and  suicide? 

She  was  conscious,  I  do  believe,  of  no  other 


Spring  Yearnings  31 

reason  than  that  she  gave  ;  but  consciousness  is  a 
dim  candle  —  over  a  deep  mine. 

"  After  all,"  she  said  pettishly,  "  people  will  call  it 
a  mere  imitation  of  Shelley's  '  Alastor.'  And  what 
harm  if  it  is?  Is  there  to  be  no  female  Alastor? 
Has  not  the  woman  as  good  a  right  as  the  man  to 
long  after  ideal  beauty  —  to  pine  and  die  if  she 
cannot  find  it;  and  regenerate  herself  in  its 
light?" 

"  Yo-hoo-oo-oo  !  Youp,  youp !  Oh-hooo  !  " 
arose  doleful  through  the  echoing  shrubbery. 

Argemone  started  and  looked  out.  It  was  not 
a  banshee,  but  a  forgotten  fox-hound  puppy,  sit- 
ting mournfully  on  the  gravel-walk  beneath,  star- 
ing at  the  clear  ghastly  moon. 

She  laughed  and  blushed  —  there  was  a  rebuke 
in  it.  She  turned  to  go  to  rest ;  and  as  she  knelt 
and  prayed  at  her  velvet  faldstool,  among  all  the 
nicknacks  which  nowadays  make  a  luxury  of  de- 
votion, was  it  strange  if,  after  she  had  prayed  for 
the  fate  of  nations  and  churches,  and  for  those 
who,  as  she  thought,  were  fighting  at  Oxford  the 
cause  of  universal  truth  and  reverent  antiquity, 
she  remembered  in  her  petitions  the  poor  godless 
youth,  with  his  troubled  and  troubling  eloquence? 
But  it  was  strange  that  she  blushed  when  she 
mentioned  his  name  —  why  should  she  not  pray 
for  him  as  she  prayed  for  others? 

Perhaps  she  felt  that  she  did  not  pray  for  him 
as  she  prayed  for  others. 

She  left  the  ^Eolian  harp  in  the  window,  as  a 
luxury  if  she  should  wake,  and  coiled  herself  up 
among  lace  pillows  and  eider  blemos;  and  the 
hound  coiled  himself  up  on  the  gravel-walk,  after 
a  solemn  vesper  ceremony  of  three  turns  round  in 


3  2  Yeast 

his  own  length,  looking  vainly  for  a  "  soft  stone." 
The  finest  of  us  are  animals  after  all,  and  live  by- 
eating  and  sleeping;  and,  taken  as  animals,  not  so 
badly  off  either  —  unless  we  happen  to  be  Dorset- 
shire laborers  —  or  Spitalfields  weavers  —  or  col- 
liery children  —  or  marching  soldiers  —  or,  I  am 
afraid,  one  half  of  English  souls  this  day. 

And  Argemone  dreamed  ;  —  that  she  was  a  fox, 
flying  for  her  life  through  a  churchyard  —  and 
Lancelot  was  a  hound,  yelling  and  leaping,  in  a 
red  coat  and  white  buckskins,  close  upon  her  — 
and  she  felt  his  hot  breath,  and  saw  his  white  teeth 
glare.  .  .  .  And  then  her  father  was  there:  and 
he  was  an  Italian  boy,  and  played  the  organ  — 
and  Lancelot  was  a  dancing  dog,  and  stood  up  and 
danced  to  the  tune  of  "  Cest  I'amour,  I' amour, 
I' amour"  pitifully  enough,  in  his  red  coat  —  and 
she  stood  up  and  danced  too ;  but  she  found  her 
fox-fur  dress  insufficient,  and  begged  hard  for  a 
paper  frill — which  was  denied  her:  whereat  she 
cried  bitterly  and  woke ;  and  saw  the  Night  peep- 
ing in  with  her  bright  diamond  eyes,  and  blushed, 
and  hid  her  beautiful  face  in  the  pillows,  and  fell 
asleep  again. 

What  the  little  imp,  who  managed  this  puppet- 
show  on  Argemone's  brain-stage,  may  have  in- 
tended to  symbolize  thereby,  and  whence  he  stole 
his  actors  and  stage-properties,  and  whether  he 
got  up  the  interlude  for  his  own  private  fun,  or 
for  that  of  a  choir  of  brother  Eulenspiegels,  or, 
finally,  for  the  edification  of  Argemone  as  to  her 
own  history,  past,  present,  or  future,  are  questions 
which  we  must  leave  unanswered,  till  physicians 
have  become  a  little  more  of  metaphysicians,  and 
have  given  up  their  present  plan  of  ignoring  for 


Spring  Yearnings  33 

nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  pages  that  most 
awful  and  significant  custom  of  dreaming,  and 
then  in  the  thousandth  page  talking  the  boldest 
materialist  twaddle  about  it. 

In  the  meantime,  Lancelot,  contrary  to  the 
colonel's  express  commands,  was  sitting  up  to 
indite  the  following  letter  to  his  cousin,  the 
Tractarian  curate: 

"  You  complain  that  I  waste  my  time  in  field-sports : 
how  do  you  know  that  I  waste  my  time  ?  I  find  within 
myself  certain  appetites ;  and  I  suppose  that  the  God 
whom  you  say  made  me,  made  those  appetites  as  a  part 
of  me.  Why  are  they  to  be  crushed  any  more  than  any 
other  part  of  me  ?  I  am  the  whole  of  what  I  find  in 
myself —  am  I  to  pick  and  choose  myself  out  of  myself? 
And  besides,  I  feel  that  the  exercise  of  freedom,  activity, 
foresight,  daring,  independent  self-determination,  even 
in  a  few  minutes'  burst  across  country,  strengthens  me 
in  mind  as  well  as  in  body.  It  might  not  do  so  to  you ; 
but  you  are  of  a  different  constitution,  and,  from  all  I 
see,  the  power  of  a  man's  muscles,  the  excitability  of  his 
nerves,  the  shape  and  balance  of  his  brain,  make  him 
what  he  is.  Else  what  is  the  meaning  of  physiognomy? 
Every  man's  destiny,  as  the  Turks  say,  stands  written 
on  his  forehead.  One  does  not  need  two  glances  at 
your  face  to  know  that  you  would  not  enjoy  fox-hunting, 
that  you  would  enjoy  book-learning  and  '  refined  repose,' 
as  they  are  pleased  to  call  it.  Every  man  carries  his 
character  in  his  brain.  You  all  know  that,  and  act 
upon  it  when  you  have  to  deal  with  a  man  for  sixpence ; 
but  your  religious  dogmas,  which  make  out  that  every 
man  comes  into  the  world  equally  brutish  and  fiendish, 
make  you  afraid  to  confess  it.  I  don't  quarrel  with  a 
'  douce '  man  like  you,  with  a  large  organ  of  veneration, 
for  following  your  bent.  But  if  I  am  fiery,  with  a  huge 
C— Vol.  V 


34  Yeast 

cerebellum,  why  am  I  not  to  follow  mine  ?  —  For  that 
is  what  you  do,  after  all  —  what  you  like  best.  It  is  all 
very  easy  for  a  man  to  talk  of  conquering  his  appetites, 
when  he  has  none  to  conquer.  Try  and  conquer  your 
organ  of  veneration,  or  of  benevolence,  or  of  calculation 
—  then  I  will  call  you  an  ascetic.  Why  not !  —  The 
same  Power  which  made  the  front  of  one's  head  made 
the  back,  I  suppose? 

"  And,  I  tell  you,  hunting  does  me  good.  It  awakens 
me  out  of  my  dreary  mill-round  of  metaphysics.  It 
sweeps  away  that  infernal  web  of  self-consciousness,  and 
absorbs  me  in  outward  objects ;  and  my  red-hot  Peril- 
lus's  bull  cools  in  proportion  as  my  horse  warms.  I  tell 
you,  I  never  saw  a  man  who  could  cut  out  his  way  across 
country  who  could  not  cut  his  way  through  better  things 
when  his  turn  came.  The  cleverest  and  noblest  fellows 
are  sure  to  be  the  best  riders  in  the  long  run.  And 
as  for  bad  company  and  '  the  world,'  when  you  take  to 
going  in  the  first-class  carriages  for  fear  of  meeting  a 
swearing  sailor  in  the  second-class  —  when  those  who 
have  '  renounced  the  world '  give  up  buying  and  selling 
in  the  funds  —  when  my  uncle,  the  pious  banker,  who 
will  only  '  associate  '  with  the  truly  religious,  gives  up 
dealing  with  any  scoundrel  or  heathen  who  can  'do 
business '  with  him  —  then  you  may  quote  pious  people's 
opinions  to  me.  In  God's  name,  if  the  Stock  Exchange, 
and  railway  stagging,  and  the  advertisements  in  the 
Protestant  Hue-and-Cry,  and  the  frantic  Mammon- 
hunting  which  has  been  for  the  last  fifty  years  the 
peculiar  pursuit  of  the  majority  of  Quakers,  Dissenters, 
and  Religious  Churchmen,  are  not  The  World,  what  is? 
I  don't  complain  of  them,  though ;  Puritanism  has  inter- 
dicted to  them  all  art,  all  excitement,  all  amusement  — 
except  money-making.  It  is  their  dernier  ressort,  poor 
souls ! 

"But  you  must  explain  to  us   naughty  fox-hunters 


Spring  Yearnings  35 

how  all  this  agrees  with  the  good  book.  We  see  plainly 
enough,  in  the  meantime,  how  it  agrees  with  'poor 
human  nature.'  We  see  that  the  '  religious  world,'  like 
the  *  great  world,'  and  the  'sporting  world,'  and  the 
'  literary  world,' 

'  Compounds  for  sins  she  is  inclined  to, 
By  damning  those  she  has  no  mind  to ; ' 

and  that  because  England  is  a  money-making  country, 
and  money-making  is  an  effeminate  pursuit,  therefore 
all  sedentary  and  spoony  sins,  like  covetousness,  slander, 
bigotry,  and  self-conceit,  are  to  be  cockered  and  plas- 
tered over,  while  the  more  masculine  vices,  and  no-vices 
also,  are  mercilessly  hunted  down  by  your  cold-blooded, 
soft-handed  religionists. 

"  This  is  a  more  quiet  letter  than  usual  from  me,  my 
dear  coz,  for  many  of  your  reproofs  cut  me  home  :  they 
angered  me  at  the  time;  but  I  deserve  them.  I  am 
miserable,  self- disgusted,  self-helpless,  craving  for  free- 
dom, and  yet  crying  aloud  for  some  one  to  come  and 
guide  me,  and  teach  me ;  and  who  is  there  in  these  days 
who  could  teach  a  fast  man,  even  if  he  would  try?  Be 
sure,  that  as  long  as  you  and  yours  make  piety  a  syno- 
nym for  unmanliness,  you  will  never  convert  either  me 
or  any  other  good  sportsman. 

"  By  the  by,  my  dear  fellow,  was  I  asleep  or  awake 
when  I  seemed  to  read  in  the  postscript  of  your  last 
letter,  something  about  'being  driven  to  Rome  after 
all '  ?  .  .  .  Why  thither,  of  all  places  in  heaven  or  earth  ? 
You  know,  I  have  no  party  interest  in  the  question. 
All  creeds  are  very  much  alike  to  me  just  now.  But 
allow  me  to  ask,  in  a  spirit  of  the  most  tolerant  curi- 
osity, what  possible  celestial  bait,  either  of  the  useful 
or  the  agreeable  kind,  can  the  present  excellent  Pope, 
or  his  adherents,  hold  out  to  you  in  compensation  for 
the  solid  earthly  pudding  which  you  would  have  to 


36  Yeast 

desert?  ...  I  dare  say,  though,  that  I  shall  not  com- 
prehend your  answer  when  it  comes.  I  am,  you  know, 
utterly  deficient  in  that  sixth  sense  of  the  angelic  or 
supralunar  beautiful,  which  fills  your  soul  with  ecstasy. 
You,  I  know,  expect  and  long  to  become  an  angel  after 
death;  I  am  under  the  strange  hallucination  that  my 
body  is  part  of  me,  and  in  spite  of  old  Plotinus,  look 
with  horror  at  a  disembodiment  till  the  giving  of  that 
new  body,  the  great  perfection  of  which,  in  your  eyes, 
and  those  of  every  one  else,  seems  to  be,  that  it  will  be 

less,  and  not  more  of  a  body,  than  our  present  one 

Is  this  hope,  to  me  at  once  inconceivable  and  contra- 
dictory, palpable  and  valuable  enough  to  you  to  send 
you  to  that  Italian  Avernus,  to  get  it  made  a  little  more 
certain  ?  If  so,  I  despair  of  your  making  your  meaning 
intelligible  to  a  poor  fellow  wallowing,  like  me,  in  the 
Hylic  Borboros  —  or  whatever  else  you  may  choose  to 
call  the  unfortunate  fact  of  being  flesh  and  blood.  .  .  . 
Still,  write." 


CHAPTER  IH 

SEW  ACTORS,  AND  A  NEW  STAGE 

WHEN  Argemone  rose  in  the  morning,  her 
first  thought  was  of  Lancelot.  His  face 
haunted  her.  The  wild  brilliance  of  his  intellect 
struggling  through  foul  smoke-clouds,  had  haunted 
her  still  more.  She  had  heard  of  his  profligacy, 
his  bursts  of  fierce  Berserk-madness;  and  yet 
now  these  very  faults,  instead  of  repelling, 
seemed  to  attract  her,  and  intensify  her  longing 
to  save  him.  She  would  convert  him;  purify 
him;  harmonize  his  discords.  And  that  very 
wish  gave  her  a  peace  she  had  never  felt  before. 
She  had  formed  her  idea ;  she  had  now  a  purpose 
for  which  to  live,  and  she  determined  to  concen- 
trate herself  for  the  work,  and  longed  for  the 
moment  when  she  should  meet  Lancelot,  and 
begin  —  how,  she  did  not  very  clearly  see. 

It  is  an  old  jest  —  the  fair  devotee  trying  to 
convert  the  young  rake.  Men  of  the  world  laugh 
heartily  at  it;  and  so  does  the  devil,  no  doubt. 
If  any  readers  wish  to  be  fellow-jesters  with  that 
personage,  they  may;  but,  as  sure  as  old  Saxon 
women-worship  remains  forever  a  blessed  and 
healing  law  of  life,  the  devotee  may  yet  convert 
the  rake  —  and,  perhaps,  herself  into  the  bargain. 

Argemone  looked  almost  angrily  round  at  her 
beloved  books  and  drawings;  for  they  spoke  a 


38  Yeast 

message  to  her  which  they  had  never  spoken 
before,  of  self-centred  ambition.  "Yes,"  she 
said  aloud  to  herself,  "I  have  been  selfish, 
utterly!  Art,  poetry,  science  —  I  believe,  after 
all,  that  I  have  only  loved  them  for  my  own 
sake,  not  for  theirs,  because  they  would  make 
me  something,  feed  my  conceit  of  my  own  talents. 
How  infinitely  more  glorious  to  find  my  work- 
field  and  my  prize,  not  in  dead  forms  and  colors, 
or  ink-and-paper  theories,  but  in  a  living,  immor- 
tal, human  spirit !  I  will  study  no  more,  except 
the  human  heart,  and  only  that  to  purify  and 
ennoble  it." 

True,  Argemone ;  and  yet,  like  all  resolutions, 
somewhat  less  than  the  truth.  That  morning, 
indeed,  her  purpose  was  simple  as  God's  own 
light.  She  never  dreamed  of  exciting  Lancelot's 
admiration,  even  his  friendship  for  herself.  She 
would  have  started  as  from  a  snake,  from  the 
issue  which  the  reader  very  clearly  foresees,  that 
Lancelot  would  fall  in  love,  not  with  Young  Eng- 
landism,  but  with  Argemone  Lavington.  But 
yet  self  is  not  eradicated  even  from  a  woman's 
heart  in  one  morning  before  breakfast.  Besides, 
it  is  not  "benevolence,"  but  love  —  the  real 
Cupid  of  flesh  and  blood,  who  can  first 

"  Touch  the  chord  of  self  which,  trembling, 
Passes  in  music  out  of  sight." 

But  a  time  for  all  things;  and  it  is  now  time 
for  Argemone>to  go  down  to  breakfast,  having 
prepared  some  dozen  imaginary  dialogues  between 
herself  and  Lancelot,  in  which,  of  course,  her 
eloquence  always  had  the  victory.  She  had  yet 
to  learn,  that  it  is  better  sometimes  not  to  settle 


New  Actors,  and  a  New  Stage      39 

in  one's  heart  what  we  shall  speak,  for  the  Ever- 
lasting Will  has  good  works  ready  prepared  for 
us  to  walk  in,  by  what  we  call  fortunate  accident; 
and  it  shall  be  given  us  in  that  day  and  that  hour 
what  we  shall  speak. 

Lancelot,  in  the  meantime,  shrank  from  meet- 
ing Argemone;  and  was  quite  glad  of  the  weak- 
ness which  kept  him  upstairs.  Whether  he  was 
afraid  of  her  —  whether  he  was  ashamed  of  him- 
self or  of  his  crutches,  I  cannot  tell,  but  I  dare 
say,  reader,  you  are  getting  tired  of  all  this 
soul-dissecting.  So  we  will  have  a  bit  of  action 
again,  for  the  sake  of  variety,  if  for  nothing 
better. 

Of  all  the  species  of  lovely  scenery  which 
England  holds,  none,  perhaps,  is  more  exquisite 
than  the  banks  of  the  chalk-rivers  —  the  perfect 
limpidity  of  the  water,  the  gay  and  luxuriant 
vegetation  of  the  banks  and  ditches,  the  masses 
of  noble  wood  embosoming  the  villages,  the 
unique  beauty  of  the  water-meadows,  living  sheets 
of  emerald  and  silver,  tinkling  and  sparkling, 
cool  under  the  fiercest  sun,  brilliant  under  the 
blackest  clouds.  —  There,  if  anywhere,  one  would 
have  expected  to  find  Arcadia  among  fertility, 
loveliness,  industry,  and  wealth.  But,  alas  for 
the  sad  reality !  the  cool  breath  of  those  glitter- 
ing water-meadows  too  often  floats  laden  with 
poisonous  miasma.  Those  picturesque  villages 
are  generally  the  perennial  hotbeds  of  fever  and 
ague,  of  squalid  penury,  sottish  profligacy,  dull 
discontent  too  stale  for  words.  There  is  luxury 
in  the  park,  wealth  in  the  huge  farm -stead  ings, 
knowledge  in  the  parsonage:  but  the  poor?  those 
by  whose  dull  labor  all  that  luxury  and  wealth, 


40  Yeast 

ay,  even  that  knowledge,  is  made  possible  —  what 
are  they?  We  shall  see,  please  God,  ere  the 
story's  end. 

But  of  all  this  Lancelot  as  yet  thought  noth- 
ing. He,  too,  had  to  be  emancipated,  as  much 
as  Argemone,  from  selfish  dreams;  to  learn  to 
work  trustfully  in  the  living  Present,  not  to  gloat 
sentimentally  over  the  unreturning  Past.  But 
his  time  was  not  yet  come;  and  little  he  thought 
of  all  the  work  which  lay  ready  for  him  within  a 
mile  of  the  Priory,  as  he  watched  the  ladies  go 
out  for  the  afternoon,  and  slipped  down  to  the 
Nun's-pool  on  his  crutches  to  smoke  and  fish,  and 
build  castles  in  the  air. 

The  Priory,  with  its  rambling  courts  and 
gardens,  stood  on  an  island  in  the  river.  The 
upper  stream  flowed  in  a  straight  artificial  channel 
through  the  garden,  still  and  broad,  towards  the 
Priory  mill;  while  just  above  the  Priory  wall 
half  the  river  fell  over  a  high  weir,  with  all  its 
appendages  of  bucks  and  hatchways,  and  eel- 
baskets,  into  the  Nun's-pool,  and  then  swept 
round  under  the  ivied  walls,  with  their  fantastic 
turrets  and  gables,  and  little  loopholed  windows, 
peering  out  over  the  stream,  as  it  hurried  down 
over  the  shallows  to  join  the  race  below  the 
mill.  A  postern  door  in  the  walls  opened  on  an 
ornamental  wooden  bridge  across  the  weir-head 
—  a  favorite  haunt  of  all  fishers  and  sketchers 
who  were  admitted  to  the  dragon -guarded  Elysium 
of  Whitford  Priors.  Thither  Lancelot  went,  con- 
gratulating himself,  strange  to  say,  in  having 
escaped  the  only  human  being  whom  he  loved  on 
earth. 

He  found  on  the  weir-bridge  two  of  the  keepers. 


New  Actors,  and  a  New  Stage      41 

The  younger  one,  Tregarva,  was  a  stately, 
thoughtful-looking  Cornishman,  some  six  feet 
three  in  height,  with  thews  and  sinews  in  pro- 
portion. He  was  sitting  on  the  bridge  looking 
over  a  basket  of  eel-lines,  and  listening  silently 
to  the  chat  of  his  companion. 

Old  Harry  Verney,  the  other  keeper,  was  a 
character  in  his  way,  and  a  very  bad  character 
too,  though  he  was  a  patriarch  among  all  the 
gamekeepers  of  the  vale.  He  was  a  short,  wiry, 
bandy-legged,  ferret-visaged  old  man,  with  grizzled 
hair,  and  a  wizened  face  tanned  brown  and  purple 
by  constant  exposure.  Between  rheumatism  and 
constant  handling  the  rod  and  gun,  his  fingers 
were  crooked  like  a  hawk's  claws.  He  kept  his 
left  eye  always  shut,  apparently  to  save  trouble 
in  shooting ;  and  squinted,  and  sniffed,  and  peered, 
with  a  stooping  back  and  protruded  chin,  as  if  he 
were  perpetually  on  the  watch  for  fish,  flesh,  and 
fowl,  vermin  and  Christian.  The  friendship 
between  himself  and  the  Scotch  terrier  at  his 
heels  would  have  been  easily  explained  by  Les- 
sing,  for  in  the  transmigration  of  souls  the  spirit 
of  Harry  Verney  had  evidently  once  animated  a 
dog  of  that  breed.  He  was  dressed  in  a  huge 
thick  fustian  jacket,  scratched,  stained,  and 
patched,  with  bulging,  greasy  pockets ;  a  cast  of 
flies  round  a  battered  hat,  riddled  with  shot- 
holes,  a  dog- whistle  at  his  button-hole,  and  an 
old  gun  cut  short  over  his  arm,  bespoke  his 
business. 

"I  seed  that  'ere  Crawy  against  Ashy  Down 
Plantations  last  night,  I'll  be  sworn,"  said  he, 
in  a  squeaking,  sneaking  tone. 

"  Well,  what  harm  was  the  man  doing  ? " 


42  Yeast 

"  Oh,  ay,  that 's  the  way  you  young  'uns  talk. 
If  he  warn't  doing  mischief,  he  'd  'a'  been  glad 
to  have  been  doing  it,  I  '11  warrant.  If  I  'd  been 
as  young  as  you,  I  'd  have  picked  a  quarrel  with 
him  soon  enough,  and  found  a  cause  for  tackling 
him.  It 's  worth  a  brace  of  sovereigns  with  the 
squire  to  haul  him  up.  Eh?  eh?  Ain't  old 
Harry  right  now  ? " 

"  Humph ! "  growled  the  younger  man. 

"  There,  then,  you  get  me  a  snare  and  a  hare 
by  to-morrow  night,"  went  on  old  Harry,  "and 
see  if  I  don't  nab  him.  It  won't  lay  long  under 
the  plantation  afore  he  picks  it  up.  You  mind 
to  snare  me  a  hare  to-night,  now!" 

"  I  '11  do  no  such  thing,  nor  help  to  bring  false 
accusations  against  any  man ! " 

"False  accusations!"  answered  Harry,  in  his 
cringing  way.  "  Look  at  that  now,  for  a  keeper 
to  say !  Why,  if  he  don't  happen  to  have  a  snare 
just  there,  he  has  somewhere  else,  you  know. 
Eh  ?  Ain't  old  Harry  right  now,  eh  ? " 

"Maybe." 

"There,  don't  say  I  don't  know  nothing  then. 
Eh?  What  matter  who  put  the  snare  down,  or 
the  hare  in,  perwided  he  takes  it  up,  man?  If 
'twas  his'n  he'd  be  all  the  better  pleased.  The 
most  notoriousest  poacher  as  walks  unhung!" 
And  old  Harry  lifted  up  his  crooked  hands  in 
pious  indignation. 

"I  '11  have  no  more  gamekeeping,  Harry.  What 
with  hunting  down  Christians  as  if  they  were 
vermin,  all  night,  and  being  cursed  by  the  squire 
all  day,  I  'd  sooner  be  a  sheriff's  runner,  or  a 
negro  slave." 

"Ay,  ay !  that 's  the  way  the  young  dogs  always 


New  Actors,  and  a  New  Stage      43 

bark  afore  they  're  broke  in,  and  gets  to  like  it, 
as  the  eels  does  skinning.  Haven't  I  bounced 
pretty  near  out  of  my  skin  many  a  time  afore  now, 
on  this  here  very  bridge,  with  '  Harry,  jump  in, 
you  stupid  hound ! '  and  '  Harry,  get  out,  you 
one-eyed  tailor ! '  And  then,  if  one  of  the  gentle- 
men lost  a  fish  with  their  clumsiness  —  Oh, 
Father!  to  hear  'em  let  out  at  me  and  my  land- 
ing-net, and  curse  fit  to  fright  the  devil !  Dash 
their  sarcy  tongues !  Eh !  Don't  old  Harry 
know  their  ways?  Don't  he  know  'em,  now?" 

"Ay,"  said  the  young  man,  bitterly.  "We 
break  the  dogs,  and  we  load  the  guns,  and  we 
find  the  game,  and  mark  the  game,  —  and  then 
they  call  themselves  sportsmen;  we  choose  the 
flies,  and  we  bait  the  spinning-hooks,  and  we 
show  them  where  the  fish  lie,  and  then  when 
they  've  hooked  them,  they  can't  get  them  out 
without  us  and  the  spoon-net ;  and  then  they  go 
home  to  the  ladies  and  boast  of  the  lot  of  fish 
they  killed  —  and  who  thinks  of  the  keeper?" 

"Oh!  ah!  Then  don't  say  old  Harry  knows 
nothing,  then.  How  nicely,  now,  you  and  I 
might  get  a  living  off  this  'ere  manor,  if  the 
landlords  was  served  like  the  French  ones  was. 
Eh,  Paul?"  chuckled  old  Harry.  "Wouldn't 
we  pay  our  taxes  with  pheasants  and  grayling, 
that's  all,  eh?  Ain't  old  Harry  right  now, 
eh?" 

The  old  fox  was  fishing  for  an  assent,  not  for 
its  own  sake,  for  he  was  a  fierce  Tory,  and  would 
have  stood  up  to  be  shot  at  any  day,  not  only  for 
his  master's  sake,  but  for  the  sake  of  a  single 
pheasant  of  his  master's;  but  he  hated  Tregarva 
for  many  reasons,  and  was  daily  on  the  watch  to 


44  Yeast 

entrap  him  on  some  of  his  peculiar  points,  where- 
of he  had,  as  we  shall  find,  a  good  many. 

What  would  have  been  Tregarva's  answer,  I 
cannot  tell;  but  Lancelot,  who  had  unintention- 
ally overheard  the  greater  part  of  the  conversation, 
disliked  being  any  longer  a  listener,  and  came 
close  to  them. 

"Here's  your  gudgeons  and  minnows,  sir,  as 
you  bespoke,"  quoth  Harry;  "and  here's  that 
paternoster  as  you  gave  me  to  rig  up.  Beautiful 
minnows,  sir,  white  as  a  silver  spoon.  — They  're 
the  ones  now,  ain't  they,  sir,  eh  ? " 

"They '11  do!" 

"Well,  then,  don't  say  old  Harry  don't  know 
nothing,  that's  all,  eh?"  and  the  old  fellow 
toddled  off,  peering  and  twisting  his  head  about 
like  a  starling. 

"An  odd  old  fellow  that,  Tregarva,"  said 
Lancelot. 

"Very,  sir,  considering  who  made  him," 
answered  the  Cornishman,  touching  his  hat,  and 
then  thrusting  his  nose  deeper  than  ever  into  the 
eel-basket. 

"Beautiful  stream  this,"  said  Lancelot,  who 
had  a  continual  longing  —  right  or  wrong  —  to 
chat  with  his  inferiors ;  and  was  proportionately 
sulky  and  reserved  to  his  superiors. 

"Beautiful  enough,  sir,"  said  the  keeper,  with 
an  emphasis  on  the  first  word. 

"  Why,  has  it  any  other  fault  ? " 

"Not  so  wholesome  as  pretty,  sir." 

"  What  harm  does  it  do  ?  " 

"Fever,  and  ague,  and  rheumatism,  sir." 

"Where?"  asked  Lancelot,  a  little  amused  by 
the  man's  laconic  answers. 


New  Actors,  and  a  New  Stage      45 

"Wherever  the  white  fog  spreads,  sir." 

"Where's  that?" 

"Everywhere,  sir." 

"And  when?" 

"Always,  sir." 

Lancelot  burst  out  laughing.  The  man  looked 
up  at  him  slowly  and  seriously. 

"You  wouldn't  laugh,  sir,  if  you  'd  seen  much 
of  the  inside  of  these  cottages  round." 

"Really,"  said  Lancelot,  "I  was  only  laugh- 
ing at  our  making  such  very  short  work  of  such  a 
long  and  serious  story.  Do  you  mean  that  the 
unhealthiness  of  this  country  is  wholly  caused 
by  the  river?" 

"No,  sir.  The  river-damps  are  God's  sending; 
and  so  they  are  not  too  bad  to  bear.  But  there  's 
more  of  man's  sending,  that  is  too  bad  to  bear." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"Are  men  likely  to  be  healthy  when  they  are 
worse  housed  than  a  pig? " 

"No." 

"  And  worse  fed  than  a  hound  ? " 

"  Good  heavens !     No ! " 

"  Or  packed  together  to  sleep,  like  pilchards 
in  a  barrel  ? " 

"But,  my  good  fellow,  do  you  mean  that  the 
laborers  here  are  in  that  state  ? " 

"It  isn't  far  to  walk,  sir.  Perhaps  some  day, 
when  the  May-fly  is  gone  off,  and  the  fish  won't 
rise  awhile,  you  could  walk  down  and  see.  I  beg 
your  pardon,  sir,  though,  for  thinking  of  such  a 
thing.  They  are  not  places  fit  for  gentlemen, 
that's  certain."  There  was  a  staid  irony  in  his 
tone,  which  Lancelot  felt. 

"  But  the  clergyman  goes  ? " 


46  Yeast 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  And  Miss  Honoria  goes  ? " 

"Yes,  God  Almighty  bless  her!" 

"And  do  not  they  see  that  all  goes  right? " 

The  giant  twisted  his  huge  limbs,  as  if  trying 
to  avoid  an  answer,  and  yet  not  daring  to  do  so. 

"  Do  clergymen  go  about  among  the  poor  much, 
sir,  at  college,  before  they  are  ordained  ?  " 

Lancelot  smiled,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  I  thought  so,  sir.  Our  good  vicar  is  like  the 
rest  hereabouts.  God  knows,  he  stints  neither 
time  nor  money  —  the  souls  of  the  poor  are  well 
looked  after,  and  their  bodies  too  —  as  far  as  his 
purse  will  go;  but  that 's  not  far." 

"Is  he  ill  off,  then?" 

"The  living  's  worth  some  forty  pounds  a  year. 
The  great  tithes,  they  say,  are  worth  better  than 
twelve  hundred ;  but  Squire  Lavington  has  them." 

"  Oh,  I  see ! "  said  Lancelot. 

"I'm  glad  you  do,  sir,  for  I  don't,"  meekly 
answered  Tregarva.  "  But  the  vicar,  sir,  he  is  a 
kind  man,  and  a  good;  but  the  poor  don't  under- 
stand him,  nor  he  them.  He  is  too  learned,  sir, 
and,  saving  your  presence,  too  fond  of  his  Prayer- 
book." 

"One  can't  be  too  fond  of  a  good  thing." 

"Not  unless  you  make  an  idol  of  it,  sir,  and 
fancy  that  men's  souls  were  made  for  the  Prayer- 
book,  and  not  the  Prayer-book  for  them. " 

"  But  cannot  he  expose  and  redress  these  evils, 
if  they  exist  ?  " 

Tregarva  twisted  about  again. 

"I  do  not  say  that  I  think  it,  sir;  but  this  I 
know,  that  every  poor  man  in  the  vale  thinks 
it  —  that  the  parsons  are  afraid  of  the  landlords. 


New  Actors,  and  a  New  Stage      47 

They  must  see  these  things,  for  they  are  not 
blind;  and  they  try  to  plaster  them  up  out  of 
their  own  pockets." 

"But  why,  in  God's  name,  don't  they  strike 
at  the  root  of  the  matter,  and  go  straight  to 
the  landlords  and  tell  them  the  truth  ? "  asked 
Lancelot. 

"So  people  say,  sir.  I  see  no  reason  for  it 
except  the  one  which  I  gave  you.  Besides,  sir, 
you  must  remember  that  a  man  can't  quarrel 
with  his  own  kin ;  and  so  many  of  them  are  their 
squire's  brothers,  or  sons,  or  nephews." 

"Or  good  friends  with  him,  at  least." 

"Ay,  sir,  and,  to  do  them  justice,  they  had 
need,  for  the  poor's  sake,  to  keep  good  friends 
with  the  squire.  How  else  are  they  to  get  a 
farthing  for  schools,  or  coal-subscriptions,  or 
lying-in  societies,  or  lending  libraries,  or  penny 
clubs?  If  they  spoke  their  minds  to  the  great 
ones,  sir,  how  could  they  keep  the  parish  to- 
gether?" 

"  You  seem  to  see  both  sides  of  a  question,  cer- 
tainly. But  what  a  miserable  state  of  things, 
that  the  laboring  man  should  require  all  these 
societies,  and  charities,  and  helps  from  the  rich ! 
—  that  an  industrious  freeman  cannot  live  with- 
out alms!" 

"So  I  have  thought  this  long  time,"  quietly 
answered  Tregarva. 

"  But  Miss  Honoria,  —  she  is  not  afraid  to  tell 
her  father  the  truth  ?  " 

"Suppose,  sir,  when  Adam  and  Eve  were  in 
the  garden,  that  all  the  devils  had  come  up  and 
played  their  fiends'  tricks  before  them,  —  do  you 
think  they'd  have  seen  any  shame  in  it?" 


48  Yeast 

"I  really  cannot  tell,"  said  Lancelot,  smiling, 

"Then  I  can,  sir.  They'd  have  seen  no  more 
harm  in  it  than  there  was  harm  already  in  them- 
selves; and  that  was  none.  A  man's  eyes  can 
only  see  what  they've  learnt  to  see." 

Lancelot  started:  it  was  a  favorite  dictum  of 
his  in  Carlyle's  works. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  thought,  my  friend?" 

"  By  seeing,  sir. " 

"But  what  has  that  to  do  with  Miss  Honoria?" 

"She  is  an  angel  of  holiness  herself,  sir;  and, 
therefore,  she  goes  on  without  blushing  or  sus- 
pecting, where  our  blood  would  boil  again.  She 
sees  people  in  want,  and  thinks  it  must  be  so, 
and  pities  them  and  relieves  them.  But  she 
don't  know  want  herself;  and,  therefore,  she 
don't  know  that  it  makes  men  beasts  and  devils. 
She's  as  pure  as  God's  light  herself;  and,  there- 
fore, she  fancies  every  one  is  as  spotless  as  she 
is.  And  there's  another  mistake  in  your  chari- 
table great  people,  sir.  When  they  see  poor  folk 
sick  or  hungry  before  their  eyes,  they  pull  out 
their  purses  fast  enough,  God  bless  them;  for 
they  would'n't  like  to  be  so  themselves.  But  the 
oppression  that  goes  on  all  the  year  round,  and 
the  want  that  goes  on  all  the  year  round,  and  the 
filth,  and  the  lying,  and  the  swearing,  and  the 
profligacy,  that  go  on  all  the  year  round,  and 
the  sickening  weight  of  debt,  and  the  miserable 
grinding  anxiety  from  rent-day  to  rent-day,  and 
Saturday  night  to  Saturday  night,  that  crushes  a 
man's  soul  down,  and  drives  every  thought  out 
of  his  head  but  how  he  is  to  fill  his  stomach  and 
warm  his  back,  and  keep  a  house  over  his  head, 
till  he  dare  n't  for  his  life  take  his  thoughts  one 


New  Actors,  and  a  New  Stage      49 

moment  off  the  meat  that  perisheth  —  oh,  sir, 
they  never  felt  this;  and,  therefore,  they  never 
dream  that  there  are  thousands  who  pass  them  in 
their  daily  walks  who  feel  this,  and  feel  nothing 
else!" 

This  outburst  was  uttered  with  an  earnestness 
and  majesty  which  astonished  Lancelot.  He  for- 
got the  subject  in  the  speaker. 

"You  are  a  very  extraordinary  gamekeeper!" 
said  he. 

"  When  the  Lord  shows  a  man  a  thing,  he  can't 
well  help  seeing  it,"  answered  Tregarva,  in  his 
usual  staid  tone. 

There  was  a  pause.  The  keeper  looked  at 
him  with  a  glance,  before  which  Lancelot's  eyes 
fell. 

"Hell  is  paved  with  hearsays,  sir,  and  as  all 
this  talk  of  mine  is  hearsay,  if  you  are  in  earnest, 
sir,  go  and  see  for  yourself.  I  know  you  have  a 
kind  heart,  and  they  tell  me  that  you  are  a  great 
scholar,  which  would  to  God  I  was!  so  you  ought 
not  to  condescend  to  take  my  word  for  anything 
which  you  can  look  into  yourself;"  with  which 
sound  piece  of  common-sense  Tregarva  returned 
busily  to  his  eel-lines. 

"  Hand  me  the  rod  and  can,  and  help  me  out 
along  the  buck-stage,"  said  Lancelot;  "I  must 
have  some  more  talk  with  you,  my  fine  fellow." 

"Amen,"  answered  Tregarva,  as  he  assisted 
our  lame  hero  along  a  huge  beam  which  stretched 
out  into  the  pool ;  and  having  settled  him  there, 
returned  mechanically  to  his  work,  humming  a 
Wesleyan  hymn-tune. 

Lancelot  sat  and  tried  to  catch  perch,  but 
Tregarva' s  words  haunted  him.  He  lighted  his 


50  Yeast 

cigar,  and  tried  to  think  earnestly  over  the  matter, 
but  he  had  got  into  the  wrong  place  for  thinking. 
All  his  thoughts,  all  his  sympathies,  were  drowned 
in  the  rush  and  whirl  of  the  water.  He  forgot 
everything  else  in  the  mere  animal  enjoyment  of 
sight  and  sound.  Like  many  young  men  at  his 
crisis  of  life,  he  had  given  himself  up  to  the  mere 
contemplation  of  Nature  till  he  had  become  her 
slave;  and  now  a  luscious  scene,  a  singing  bird, 
were  enough  to  allure  his  mind  away  from  the 
most  earnest  and  awful  thoughts.  He  tried  to 
think,  but  the  river  would  not  let  him.  It  thun- 
dered and  spouted  out  behind  him  from  the 
hatches,  and  leapt  madly  past  him,  and  caught 
his  eyes  in  spite  of  him,  and  swept  them  away 
down  its  dancing  waves,  and  let  them  go  again 
only  to  sweep  them  down  again  and  again,  till 
his  brain  felt  a  delicious  dizziness  from  the  ever- 
lasting rush  and  the  everlasting  roar.  And  then 
below,  how  it  spread,  and  writhed,  and  whirled 
into  transparent  fans,  hissing  and  twining  snakes, 
polished  glass-wreaths,  huge  crystal  bells,  which 
boiled  up  from  the  bottom,  and  dived  again 
beneath  long  threads  of  creamy  foam,  and  swung 
round  posts  and  roots,  and  rushed  blackening 
under  dark  weed-fringed  boughs,  and  gnawed  at 
the  marly  banks,  and  shook  the  ever-restless 
bulrushes,  till  it  was  swept  away  and  down  over 
the  white  pebbles  and  olive  weeds,  in  one  broad 
rippling  sheet  of  molten  silver,  towards  the  dis- 
tant sea.  Downwards  it  fleeted  ever,  and  bore 
his  thoughts  floating  on  its  oily  stream;  and  the 
great  trout,  with  their  yellow  sides  and  peacock 
backs,  lounged  among  the  eddies,  and  the  silver 
grayling  dimpled  and  wandered  upon  the  shallows, 


New  Actors,  and  a  New  Stage      51 

and  the  may-flies  flickered  and  rustled  round  him 
like  water  fairies,  with  their  green  gauzy  wings; 
the  coot  clanked  musically  among  the  reeds ;  the 
frogs  hummed  their  ceaseless  vesper-monotone; 
the  kingfisher  darted  from  his  hole  in  the  bank 
like  a  blue  spark  of  electric  light;  the  swallows' 
bills  snapped  as  they  twined  and  hawked  above 
the  pool ;  the  swift's  wings  whirred  like  musket- 
balls,  as  they  rushed  screaming  past  his  head; 
and  ever  the  river  fleeted  by,  bearing  his  eyes 
away  down  the  current,  till  its  wild  eddies  began 
to  glow  with  crimson  beneath  the  setting  sun. 
The  complex  harmony  of  sights  and  sounds  slid 
softly  over  his  soul,  and  he  sank  away  into  a  still 
day-dream,  too  passive  for  imagination,  too  deep 
for  meditation,  and 

"  Beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound, 
Did  pass  into  his  face." 

Blame  him  not.  There  are  more  things  in  a 
man's  heart  than  ever  get  in  through  his 
thoughts. 

On  a  sudden,  a  soft  voice  behind  him  startled 
him. 

"Can  a  poor  cockney  artist  venture  himself 
along  this  timber  without  falling  in?  " 

Lancelot  turned. 

u  Come  out  to  me,  and  if  you  stumble,  the 
naiads  will  rise  out  of  their  depths,  and  '  hold  up 
their  pearled  wrists  '  to  save  their  favorite. " 

The  artist  walked  timidly  out  along  the  beams, 
and  sat  down  beside  Lancelot,  who  shook  him 
warmly  by  the  hand. 

"Welcome,  Claude  Mellot,  and  all  lovely  en- 
thusiasms and  symbolisms !  Expound  to  me,  now, 


52  Yeast 

the  meaning  of  that  water-lily  leaf  and  its  grand 
simple  curve,  as  it  lies  sleeping  there  in  the  back 
eddy." 

"Oh,  I  am  too  amused  to  philosophize.  The 
fair  Argemone  has  just  been  treating  me  to  her 
three  hundred  and  sixty-fifth  philippic  against  my 
unoffending  beard." 

"Why,  what  fault  can  she  find  with  such  a 
graceful  and  natural  ornament  ?  " 

"Just  this,  my  dear  fellow,  that  it  is  natural. 
As  it  is,  she  considers  me  only  '  intelligent- 
looking. '  If  the  beard  were  away,  my  face,  she 
says,  would  be  '  so  refined ! '  And,  I  suppose,  if 
I  was  just  a  little  more  effeminate  and  pale,  with 
a  nice  retreating  under-jaw  and  a  drooping  lip, 
and  a  meek,  peaking  simper,  like  your  starved 
Romish  saints,  I  should  be  '  so  spiritual ! '  And 
if,  again,  to  complete  the  climax,  I  did  but  shave 
my  head  like  a  Chinese,  I  should  be  a  model  for 
St.  Francis  himself ! " 

"But  really,  after  all,  why  make  yourself  so 
singular  by  this  said  beard  ? " 

"  I  wear  it  for  a  testimony  and  a  sign  that  a 
man  has  no  right  to  be  ashamed  of  the  mark  of 
manhood.  Oh,  that  one  or  two  of  your  Protestant 
clergymen,  who  ought  to  be  perfect  ideal  men, 
would  have  the  courage  to  get  up  into  the  pulpit 
in  a  long  beard,  and  testify  that  the  very  essen- 
tial idea  of  Protestantism  is  the  dignity  and 
divinity  of  man  as  God  made  him !  Our  fore- 
fathers were  not  ashamed  of  their  beards;  but 
now  even  the  soldier  is  only  allowed  to  keep  his 
mustache,  while  our  quill-driving  masses  shave 
themselves  as  close  as  they  can;  and  in  propor- 
tion to  a  man's  piety  he  wears  less  hair,  from  the 


New  Actors,  and  a  New  Stage       53 

young  curate  who  shaves  off  his  whiskers,  to  the 
Popish  priest  who  shaves  his  crown ! " 

"What  do  you  say,  then,  to  cutting  off  nuns' 
hair?" 

"  I  say,  that  extremes  meet,  and  prudish  Mani- 
chasism  always  ends  in  sheer  indecency.  Those 
Papists  have  forgotten  what  woman  was  made 
for,  and  therefore  they  have  forgotten  that  a 
woman's  hair  is  her  glory,  for  it  was  given  to  her 
for  a  covering:  as  says  your  friend,  Paul  the 
Hebrew,  who,  by  the  by,  had  as  fine  theories  of 
art  as  he  had  of  society,  if  he  had  only  lived  fif- 
teen hundred  years  later,  and  had  a  chance  of 
working  them  out." 

"How  remarkably  orthodox  you  are!"  said 
Lancelot,  smiling. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  I  am  not  ?  You  never 
heard  me  deny  the  old  creed.  But  what  if  an 
artist  ought  to  be  of  all  creeds  at  once?  My 
business  is  to  represent  the  beautiful,  and  there- 
fore to  accept  it  wherever  I  find  it.  Yours  is  to 
be  a  philosopher,  and  find  the  true." 

"  But  the  beautiful  must  be  truly  beautiful  to 
be  worth  anything ;  and  so  you,  too,  must  search 
for  the  true. " 

"  Yes ;  truth  of  form,  color,  chiaroscuro.  They 
are  worthy  to  occupy  me  a  life;  for  they  are 
eternal  —  or  at  least  that  which  they  express :  and 
if  I  am  to  get  at  the  symbolized  unseen,  it  must 
be  through  the  beauty  of  the  symbolizing  phe- 
nomenon. If  I,  who  live  by  art,  for  art,  in  art, 
or  you  either,  who  seem  as  much  a  born  artist  as 
myself,  am  to  have  a  religion,  it  must  be  a  wor- 
ship of  the  fountain  of  art  —  of  the 

'  Spirit  of  beauty,  who  doth  consecrate 
With  his  own  hues  whate'er  he  shines  upon.' " 


54  Yeast 

"As  poor  Shelley  has  it;  and  much  peace  of 
mind  it  gave  him ! "  answered  Lancelot.  "  I 
have  grown  sick  lately  of  such  dreary  tinsel 
abstractions.  When  you  look  through  the  glit- 
ter of  the  words,  your  '  spirit  of  beauty '  sim- 
ply means  certain  shapes  and  colors  which 
please  you  in  beautiful  things  and  in  beautiful 
people. " 

"Vile  nominalist !  renegade  from  the  ideal  and 
all  its  glories !  "  said  Claude,  laughing. 

"I  don't  care  sixpence  now  for  the  ideal!  I 
want  not  beauty,  but  some  beautiful  thing  —  a 
woman  perhaps, "  and  he  sighed.  "  But  at  least 
a  person  —  a  living,  loving  person  —  all  lovely 
itself,  and  giving  loveliness  to  all  things!  If  I 
must  have  an  ideal,  let  it  be,  for  mercy's  sake, 
a  realized  one." 

Claude  opened  his  sketch-book. 

"We  shall  get  swamped  in  these  metaphysical 
oceans,  my  dear  dreamer.  But  lo,  here  come  a 
couple,  as  near  ideals  as  any  in  these  degenerate 
days  —  the  two  poles  of  beauty:  the  milieu  of 
which  would  be  Venus  with  us  Pagans,  or  the 
Virgin  Mary  with  the  Catholics.  Look  at  them ! 
Honoria  the  dark  —  symbolic  of  passionate  depth ; 
Argemone  the  fair,  type  of  intellectual  light! 
Oh,  that  I  were  a  Zeuxis  to  unite  them  instead  of; 
having  to  paint  them  in  two  separate  pictures, 
and  split  perfection  in  half,  as  everything  is  split 
in  this  piecemeal  world ! " 

"  You  will  have  the  honor  of  a  sitting  this  after- 
noon, I  suppose,  from  both  beauties  ?  " 

"I  hope  so,  for  my  own  sake.  There  is  no 
path  left  to  immortality,  or  bread  either,  now  for 
us  poor  artists  but  portrait-painting. " 


New  Actors,  and  a  New  Stage      55 

"  I  envy  you  your  path,  when  it  leads  through 
such  Elysiums,"  said  Lancelot. 

"  Come  here,  gentlemen  both  ! "  cried  Argemone 
from  the  bridge. 

"  Fairly  caught !  "  grumbled  Lancelot.  "  You 
must  go,  at  least;  my  lameness  will  excuse  me, 
I  hope." 

The  two  ladies  were  accompanied  by  Brace- 
bridge,  a  gazelle  which  he  had  given  Argemone, 
and  a  certain  miserable  cur  of  Honoria's  adopt- 
ing, who  plays  an  important  part  in  this  story, 
and,  therefore,  deserves  a  little  notice.  Honoria 
had  rescued  him  from  a  watery  death  in  the  vil- 
lage pond,  by  means  of  the  colonel,  who  had 
revenged  himself  for  a  pair  of  wet  feet  by  utterly 
corrupting  the  dog's  morals,  and  teaching  him  every 
week  to  answer  to  some  fresh  scandalous  name. 

But  Lancelot  was  not  to  escape.  Instead  of 
moving  on,  as  he  had  hoped,  the  party  stood 
looking  over  the  bridge,  and  talking  —  he  took 
for  granted,  poor  thin-skinned  fellow  —  of  him. 
And  for  once  his  suspicions  were  right;  for  he 
overheard  Argemone  say  — 

"  I  wonder  how  Mr.  Smith  can  be  so  rude  as  to 
sit  there  in  my  presence  over  his  stupid  perch ! 
Smoking  those  horrid  cigars,  too !  How  selfish 
those  field-sports  do  make  men ! " 

"Thank  you!"  said  the  colonel,  with  a  low 
bow.  Lancelot  rose. 

"If  a  country  girl,  now,  had  spoken  in  that 
tone,"  said  he  to  himself,  "it  would  have  been 

called  at  least  '  saucy' but  Mammon's  elect 

ones  may  do  anything.  Well  —  here  I  come, 
limping  to  my  new  tyrant's  feet,  like  Goethe's 
bear  to  Lili's." 


56  Yeast 

She  drew  him  away,  as  women  only  know  how, 
from  the  rest  of  the  party,  who  were  chatting 
and  laughing  with  Claude.  She  had  shown  off 
her  fancied  indifference  to  Lancelot  before  them, 
and  now  began  in  a  softer  voice  — 

"Why  will  you  be  so  shy  and  lonely,  Mr. 
Smith?" 

"  Because  I  am  not  fit  for  your  society. " 

"  Who  tells  you  so  ?  Why  will  you  not  become 
so?" 

Lancelot  hung  down  his  head. 

"  As  long  as  fish  and  game  are  your  only  society, 
you  will  become  more  and  more  morne  and  self- 
absorbed." 

"Really  fish  were  the  last  things  of  which  I 
was  thinking  when  you  came.  My  whole  heart  was 
filled  with  the  beauty  of  nature,  and  nothing  else." 

There  was  an  opening  for  one  of  Argemone's 
preconcerted  orations. 

"Had  you  no  better  occupation,"  she  said 
gently,  "than  nature,  the  first  day  of  returning 
to  the  open  air  after  so  frightful  and  dangerous 
an  accident  ?  Were  there  no  thanks  due  to  One 
above?" 

Lancelot  understood  her. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  I  was  not  even  then 
showing  my  thankfulness  ?  " 

"  What !  with  a  cigar  and  a  fishing-rod  ?  " 

"Certainly.     Why  not?" 

Argemone  really  could  not  tell  at  the  moment. 
The  answer  upset  her  scheme  entirely. 

"  Might  not  that  very  admiration  of  nature  have 
been  an  act  of  worship  ? "  continued  our  hero. 
"  How  can  we  better  glorify  the  worker  than  by 
delighting  in  his  work  ? " 


New  Actors,  and  a  New  Stage      57 

"  Ah ! "  sighed  the  lady,  "  why  trust  to  these 
self-willed  methods,  and  neglect  the  noble  and 
exquisite  forms  which  the  Church  has  prepared 
for  us  as  embodiments  for  every  feeling  of  our 
hearts  ? " 

"Every  feeling,  Miss  Lavington?" 

Argemone  hesitated.  She  had  made  the  good 
old  stock  assertion,  as  in  duty  bound;  but  she 
could  not  help  recollecting  that  there  were  several 
Popish  books  of  devotion  at  that  moment  on  her 
table,  which  seemed  to  her  to  patch  a  gap  or  two 
in  the  Prayer-book. 

"My  temple  as  yet,"  said  Lancelot,  "is  only 
the  heaven  and  the  earth;  my  church-music  I 
can  hear  all  day  long,  whenever  I  have  the  sense 
to  be  silent,  and  'hear  my  mother  sing;'  my 
priests  and  preachers  are  every  bird  and  bee, 
every  flower  and  cloud.  Am  I  not  well  enough 
furnished?  Do  you  want  to  reduce  my  circular 
infinite  chapel  to  an  oblong  hundred-foot  one? 
My  sphere  harmonies  to  the  Gregorian  tones  in 
four  parts  ?  My  world-wide  priesthood,  with  their 
endless  variety  of  costume,  to  one  not  over-edu- 
cated gentleman  in  a  white  sheet?  And  my 
dreams  of  naiads  and  flower-fairies,  and  the  blue- 
bells ringing  God's  praises,  as  they  do  in  '  The 
Story  without  an  End,'  for  the  gross  reality  of 
naughty  charity  children,  with  their  pockets  full 
of  apples,  bawling  out  Hebrew  psalms  of  which 
they  neither  feel  nor  understand  a  word  ? " 

Argemone  tried  to  look  very  much  shocked  at 
this  piece  of  bombast.     Lancelot  evidently  meant 
it  as  such,  but  he  eyed  her  all  the  while  as  if 
there  was  solemn  earnest  under  the  surface. 
-  "Oh,    Mr.    Smith  1"  she  said,  "how  can  you 
r>— Vol.  v 


58  Yeast 

dare  talk  so  of  a  liturgy  compiled  by  the  wisest 
and  holiest  of  all  countries  and  ages!  You  revile 
that  of  whose  beauty  you  are  not  qualified  to 
judge!" 

"  There  must  be  a  beauty  in  it  all,  or  such  as 
you  are  would  not  love  it. " 

"Oh,"  she  said  hopefully,  "that  you  would  but 
try  the  Church  system !  How  you  would  find  it 
harmonize  and  methodize  every  day,  every  thought 
for  you !  But  I  cannot  explain  myself.  Why 
not  go  to  our  vicar  and  open  your  doubts  to 
him?" 

"Pardon,  but  you  must  excuse  me." 
"Why?     He  is  one  of  the  saintliest  of  men!" 
"To  tell  the  truth,  I  have  been  to  him  already." 
"  You  do  not  mean  it !     And  what  did  he  tell 
you?" 

"  What  the  rest  of  the  world  does  —  hearsays. " 

"  But  did  you  not  find  him  most  kind  ? " 

"I  went  to  him  to  be  comforted  and  guided. 

He  received  me  as  a  criminal.     He  told  me  that 

my  first  duty  was  penitence;  that  as    long  as   I 

lived  the  life  I  did,  he  could  not  dare  to  cast  his 

pearls   before   swine   by   answering   my  doubts; 

that  I  was  in  a  state  incapable  of  appreciating 

spiritual  truths;  and,  therefore,  he  had  no  right 

to  tell  me  any." 

"  And  what  did  he  tell  you  ? " 
"  Several  spiritual  lies  instead,  I  thought.  He 
told  me,  hearing  me  quote  Schiller,  to  beware  of 
the  Germans,  for  they  were  all  Pantheists  at 
heart.  I  asked  him  whether  he  included  Lange 
and  Bunsen,  and  it  appeared  that  he  had  never 
read  a  German  book  in  his  life.  He  then  flew 
furiously  at  Mr.  Carlyle,  and  I  found  that  all  he 


New  Actors,  and  a  New  Stage      59 

knew  of  him  was  from  a  certain  review  in  the 
'  Quarterly. '  He  called  Boehme  a  theosophic 
Atheist.  I  should  have  burst  out  at  that,  had  I 
not  read  the  very  words  in  a  High  Church  review 
the  day  before,  and  hoped  that  he  was  not  aware 
of  the  impudent  falsehood  which  he  was  retail- 
ing. Whenever  I  feebly  interposed  an  objection 
to  anything  he  said  (for,  after  all,  he  talked  on), 
he  told  me  to  hear  the  Catholic  Church.  I  asked 
him  which  Catholic  Church  ?  He  said  the  Eng- 
lish. I  asked  him  whether  it  was  to  be  the 
Church  of  the  sixth  century,  or  the  thirteenth, 
or  the  seventeenth,  or  the  eighteenth  ?  He  told 
me  the  one  and  eternal  Church,  which  belonged 
as  much  to  the  nineteenth  century  as  to  the  first. 
I  begged  to  know  whether,  then,  I  was  to  hear 
the  Church  according  to  Simeon,  or  according  to 
Newman,  or  according  to  St.  Paul;  for  they 
seemed  to  me  a  little  at  variance  ?  He  told  me, 
austerely  enough,  that  the  mind  of  the  Church 
was  embodied  in  her  Liturgy  and  Articles.  To 
which  I  answered,  that  the  mind  of  the  episcopal 
clergy  might,  perhaps,  be;  but,  then,  how  hap- 
pened it  that  they  were  always  quarrelling  and 
calling  hard  names  about  the  sense  of  those  very 
documents?  And  so  I  left  him,  assuring  him 
that,  living  in  the  nineteenth  century,  I  wanted 
to  hear  the  Church  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
and  no  other;  and  should  be  most  happy  to  listen 
to  her,  as  soon  as  she  had  made  up  her  mind 
what  to  say." 

Argemone  was  angry  and  disappointed.  She 
felt  she  could  not  cope  with  Lancelot's  quaint 
logic,  which,  however  unsound,  cut  deeper  into 
questions  than  she  had  yet  looked  for  herself. 


60  Yeast 

Somehow,  too,  she  was  tongue-tied  before  him 
just  when  she  wanted  to  be  most  eloquent  in 
behalf  of  her  principles;  and  that  fretted  her 
still  more.  But  his  manner  puzzled  her  most  of 
all.  First  he  would  run  on  with  his  face  turned 
away,  as  if  soliloquizing  out  into  the  air,  and 
then  suddenly  look  round  at  her  with  most  fasci- 
nating humility;  and,  then,  in  a  moment,  a  dark 
shade  would  pass  over  his  countenance,  and  he 
would  look  like  one  possessed,  and  his  lips 
wreathe  in  a  sinister  artificial  smile,  and  his 
wild  eyes  glare  through  and  through  her  with 
such  cunning  understanding  of  himself  and  her, 
that,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  quailed  and 
felt  frightened,  as  if  in  the  power  of  a  madman. 
She  turned  hastily  away  to  shake  off  the  spell. 

He  sprang  after  her,  almost  on  his  knees,  and 
looked  up  into  her  beautiful  face  with  an  implor- 
ing cry. 

"What,  do  you,  too,  throw  me  off?  Will  you, 
too,  treat  the  poor  wild  uneducated  sportsman  as 
a  Pariah  and  an  outcast,  because  he  is  not  ashamed 
to  be  a  man?  —  because  he  cannot  stuff  his  soul's 
hunger  with  cut-and-dried  hearsays,  but  dares  to 
think  for  himself?  —  because  he  wants  to  believe 
things,  and  dare  not  be  satisfied  with  only  believ- 
ing that  he  ought  to  believe  them?" 

She  paused,  astonished. 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  went  on,  "I  hoped  too  much! 
What  right  had  I  to  expect  that  you  would  under- 
stand me?  What  right,  still  more,  to  expect  that 
you  would  stoop,  any  more  than  the  rest  of  the 
world,  to  speak  to  me,  as  if  I  could  become  any- 
thing better  than  the  wild  hog  I  seem  ?  Oh  yes ! 
—  the  chrysalis  has  no  butterfly  in  it,  of  course! 


New  Actors,  and  a  New  Stage      61 

Stamp  on  the  ugly  motionless  thing!  And  yet 
—  you  look  so  beautiful  and  good!  —  are  all  my 
dreams  to  perish,  about  the  Alrunen  and  prophet- 
maidens,  how  they  charmed  our  old  fighting,  hunt- 
ing forefathers  into  purity  and  sweet  obedience 
among  their  Saxon  forests  ?  Has  woman  forgot- 
ten her  mission  —  to  look  at  the  heart  and  have 
mercy,  while  cold  man  looks  at  the  act  and  con- 
demns? Do  you,  too,  like  the  rest  of  mankind, 
think  no-belief  better  than  mis-belief;  and  smile 
on  hypocrisy,  lip-assent,  practical  Atheism,  sooner 
than  on  the  unpardonable  sin  of  making  a  mis- 
take? Will  you,  like  the  rest  of  this  wise  world, 
let  a  man's  spirit  rot  asleep  into  the  pit,  if  he 
will  only  lie  quiet  and  not  disturb  your  smooth 
respectabilities;  but  if  he  dares,  in  waking,  to 
yawn  in  an  unorthodox  manner,  knock  him  on 
the  head  at  once,  and  'break  the  bruised  reed,' 
and  '  quench  the  smoking  flax '  ?  And  yet  you 
churchgoers  have  '  renounced  the  world  ' ! " 

"What  do  you  want,  in  Heaven's  name?" 
asked  Argemone,  half  terrified. 

"I  wantj0#  to  tell  me  that.  Here  I  am,  with 
youth,  health,  strength,  money,  every  blessing  of 
life  but  one ;  and  I  am  utterly  miserable,  I  want 
some  one  to  tell  me  what  I  want." 

"  Is  it  not  that  you  want  —  religion  ? " 

"I  see  hundreds  who  have  what  you  call 
religion,  with  whom  I  should  scorn  to  change 
my  irreligion." 

"But,  Mr.  Smith,  are  you  not  —  are  you  not 
wicked  ?  —  They  tell  me  so,"  said  Argemone,  with 
an  effort.  "And  is  that  not  the  cause  of  your 
disease  ? " 

Lancelot  laughed. 


62  Yeast 

"  No,  fairest  prophetess,  it  is  the  disease  itself. 
(  Why  am  I  what  I  am,  when  I  know  more  and 
more  daily  what  I  could  be  ? '  —  That  is  the 
mystery;  and  my  sins  are  the  fruit,  and  not  the 
root  of  it.  Who  will  explain  that?" 

Argemone  began,  — 

"The  Church * 

"Oh,  Miss  Lavington,"  cried  he,  impatiently, 
"will  you,  too,  send  me  back  to  that  cold  abstrac- 
tion ?  I  came  to  you,  however  presumptuous,  for 
living,  human  advice  to  a  living,  human  heart; 
and  will  you  pass  off  on  me  that  Proteus-dream 
the  Church,  which  in  every  man's  mouth  has 
a  different  meaning?  In  one  book,  meaning  a 
method  of  education,  only  it  has  never  been 
carried  out;  in  another,  a  system  of  polity, — 
only  it  has  never  been  realized;  —  now  a  set  of 
words  written  in  books,  on  whose  meaning  all 
are  divided;  now  a  body  of  men  who  are  daily 
excommunicating  each  other  as  heretics  and  apos- 
tates; now  a  universal  idea;  now  the  narrowest 
and  most  exclusive  of  all  parties.  Really,  before 
you  ask  me  to  hear  the  Church,  I  have  a  right  to 
ask  you  to  define  what  the  Church  is." 

"Our  Articles  define  it,"  said  Argemone,  drily. 

"The  'Visible  Church,'  at  least,  it  defines  as 
'  a  company  of  faithful  men,  in  which, '  etc.  But 
how  does  it  define  the  'Invisible'  one?  And 
what  does  '  faithful '  mean  ?  What  if  I  thought 
Cromwell  and  Pierre  Leroux  infinitely  more  faith- 
ful men  in  their  way,  and  better  members  of 
the  'Invisible  Church,'  than  the  torturer-pedant 
Laud,  or  the  facing  bothways  Protestant-Manichee 
Taylor?" 

It  was  lucky  for  the  life  of  young  Love  that  the 


New  Actors,  and  a  New  Stage      63 

discussion  went  no  further:  Argemone  was  be- 
coming scandalized  beyond  all  measure.  But, 
happily,  the  colonel  interposed,  — 

"Look  here;  tell  me  if  you  know  for  whom 
this  sketch  is  meant  ? " 

"Tregarva,  the  keeper:  who  can  doubt?"  an- 
swered they  both  at  once. 

"  Has  not  Mellot  succeeded  perfectly  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Lancelot.  "  But  what  wonder,  with 
such  a  noble  subject  ?  What  a  grand  benevolence 
is  enthroned  on  that  lofty  forehead ! " 

"Oh,  you  would  say  so,  indeed,"  interposed 
Honoria,  "  if  you  knew  him  !  The  stories  that  I 
could  tell  you  about  him !  How  he  would  go 
into  cottages,  read  to  sick  people  by  the  hour, 
dress  the  children,  cook  the  food  for  them,  as 
tenderly  as  any  woman  !  I  found  out,  last  winter, 
if  you  will  believe  it,  that  he  lived  on  bread  and 
water,  to  give  out  of  his  own  wages  —  which  are 
barely  twelve  shillings  a  week  —  five  shillings  a 
week  for  more  than  two  months  to  a  poor  laboring 
man,  to  prevent  his  going  to  the  workhouse,  and 
being  parted  from  his  wife  and  children." 

"  Noble,  indeed !  "  said  Lancelot.  "  I  do  not 
wonder  now  at  the  effect  his  conversation  just 
now  had  on  me." 

"  Has  he  been  talking  to  you  ?  "  said  Honoria, 
eagerly.  "  He  seldom  speaks  to  any  one." 

"He  has  to  me;  and  so  well,  that  were  I  sure 
that  the  poor  were  as  ill  off  as  he  says,  and  that 
I  had  the  power  of  altering  the  system  a  hair,  I 
could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  excuse  all  political 
grievance-mongers,  and  turn  one  myself." 

Claude  Mellot  clapped  his  white  woman-like 
hands. 


64  Yeast 

"  Bravo !  Bravo  !  O  wonderful  conversion  I 
Lancelot  has  at  last  discovered  that,  besides  the 
'  glorious  Past,'  there  is  a  Present  worthy  of  his 
sublime  notice !  We  may  now  hope,  in  time, 
that  he  will  discover  the  existence  of  a  Future !  " 

"But,  Mr.  Mellot,"  said  Honoria,  "why  have 
you  been  so  unfaithful  to  your  original?  why 
have  you,  like  all  artists,  been  trying  to  soften 
and  refine  on  your  model?" 

"Because,  my  dear  lady,  we  are  bound  to  see 
everything  in  its  ideal  —  not  as  it  is,  but  as  it 
ought  to  be,  and  will  be,  when  the  vices  of  this 
pitiful  civilized  world  are  exploded,  and  sanitary 
reform,  and  a  variety  of  occupation,  and  harmo- 
nious education,  let  each  man  fulfil  in  body 
and  soul  the  ideal  which  God  embodied  in 
him." 

"  Fourierist !  "  cried  Lancelot,  laughing.  "  But 
surely  you  never  saw  a  face  which  had  lost  by 
wear  less  of  the  divine  image?  How  thoroughly 
it  exemplifies  your  great  law  of  Protestant  art, 
that  '  the  Ideal  is  best  manifested  in  the  Peculiar. ' 
How  classic,  how  independent  of  clime  or  race, 
is  its  bland,  majestic  self-possession !  how  thor- 
oughly Norse  its  massive  squareness !  " 

"And  yet,  as  a  Cornishman,  he  should  be  no 
Norseman. " 

"I  beg  your  pardon  !  Like  all  noble  races,  the 
Cornish  owe  their  nobleness  to  the  impurity  of 
their  blood  —  to  its  perpetual  loans  from  foreign 
veins.  See  how  the  serpentine  curve  of  his  nose, 
his  long  nostril,  and  protruding,  sharp-cut  lips, 
mark  his  share  of  Phoenician  or  Jewish  blood ! 
how  Norse,  again,  that  dome-shaped  forehead! 
how  Celtic  those  dark  curls,  that  restless  gray 


New  Actors,  and  a  New  Stage      65 

eye,  with  its  swinden  blicken,  like  Von   Troneg 
Hagen's  in  the  '  Nibelungen  Lied  ' !  " 

He  turned :  Honoria  was  devouring  his  words. 
He  saw  it,  for  he  was  in  love,  and  young  love 
makes  man's  senses  as  keen  as  woman's. 

"  Look !  look  at  him  now ! "  said  Claude,  in  a 
low  voice.  V  How  he  sits,  with  his  hands  on  his 
knees,  the  enormous  size  of  his  limbs  quite  con- 
cealed by  the  careless  grace,  with  his  Egyptian 
face,  like  some  dumb  granite  Memnon!" 

"Only  waiting,"  said  Lancelot,  "for  the  day- 
star  to  arise  on  him  and  awake  him  into 
voice." 

He  looked  at  Honoria  as  he  spoke.  She  blushed 
angrily;  and  yet  a  sort  of  sympathy  arose  from 
that  moment  between  Lancelot  and  herself. 

Our  hero  feared  he  had  gone  too  far,  and  tried 
to  turn  the  subject  off. 

The  smooth  mill-head  was  alive  with  rising 
trout. 

"  What  a  huge  fish  leapt  then ! "  said  Lancelot, 
carelessly;  "and  close  to  the  bridge,  too!" 

Honoria  looked  round,  and  uttered  a  piercing 
scream. 

"  Oh,  my  dog !  my  dog  !  Mops  is  in  the  river ! 
That  horrid  gazelle  has  butted  him  in,  and  he'll 
be  drowned !  " 

Alas !  it  was  too  true.  There,  a  yard  above 
the  one  open  hatchway,  through  which  the  whole 
force  of  the  stream  was  rushing,  was  the  unhappy 
Mops,  alias  Scratch,  alias  Dirty  Dick,  alias  Jack 
Sheppard,  paddling,  and  sneezing,  and  winking, 
his  little  bald  muzzle  turned  piteously  upward  to 
the  sky. 

"  He  will  be  drowned  !  "  quoth  the  colonel. 


66  Yeast 

There  was  no  doubt  of  it ;  and  so  Mops  thought, 
as,  shivering  and  whining,  he  plied  every  leg, 
while  the  glassy  current  dragged  him  back  and 
back,  and  Honoria  sobbed  like  a  child. 

The  colonel  lay  down  on  the  bridge,  and  caught 
at  him :  his  arm  was  a  foot  too  short.  In  a 
moment  the  huge  form  of  Tregarva  plunged 
solemnly  into  the  water,  with  a  splash  like  seven 
salmon,  and  Mops  was  jerked  out  over  the 
colonel's  head  high  and  dry  on  to  the  bridge. 

"Yo^i'll  be  drowned,  at  least!"  shouted  the 
colonel,  with  an  oath  of  Uncle  Toby's  own. 

Tregarva  saw  his  danger,  made  one  desperate 
bound  upward,  and  missed  the  bridge.  The 
colonel  caught  at  him,  tore  off  a  piece  of  his 
collar  —  the  calm,  solemn  face  of  the  keeper 
flashed  past  beneath  him,  and  disappeared  through 
the  roaring  gate. 

They  rushed  to  the  other  side  of  the  bridge  — 
caught  one  glimpse  of  a  dark  body  fleeting  and 
roaring  down  the  foam-way.  The  colonel  leapt 
the  bridge-rail  like  a  deer,  rushed  out  along  the 
buck-stage,  tore  off  his  coat,  and  sprung  head- 
long into  the  boiling  pool,  "rejoicing  in  his 
might,"  as  old  Homer  would  say. 

Lancelot,  forgetting  his  crutches,  was  dashing 
after  him,  when  he  felt  a  soft  hand  clutching  at 
his  arm. 

"Lancelot!  Mr.  Smith!"  cried  Argemone. 
"  You  shall  not  go !  You  are  too  ill  —  weak " 

"A  fellow-creature's  life  !  " 

"  What  is  his  life  to  yours  ? "  she  cried,  in  a 
tone  of  deep  passion.  And  then,  imperiously, 
"  Stay  here,  I  command  you  !  " 

The  magnetic  touch  of  her  hand  thrilled  through 


New  Actors,  and  a  New  Stage      67 

his  whole  frame.  She  had  called  him  Lancelot ! 
He  shrank  down,  and  stood  spell-bound. 

"Good  heavens!"  she  cried;  "look  at  my 
sister !  " 

Out  on  the  extremity  of  the  buck-stage  (how 
she  got  there  neither  they  nor  she  ever  knew) 
crouched  Honoria,  her  face  idiotic  with  terror, 
while  she  stared  with  bursting  eyes  into  the  foam. 
A  shriek  of  disappointment  rose  from  her  lips,  as 
in  a  moment  the  colonel's  weather-worn  head 
reappeared  above,  looking  for  all  the  world  like 
an  old  gray  shiny-painted  seal. 

"  Poof  !  tally-ho  !  Poof !  poof !  Heave  me  a 
piece  of  wood,  Lancelot,  my  boy ! "  And  he  dis- 
appeared again. 

They  looked  round,  there  was  not  a  loose  bit 
near.  Claude  ran  off  towards  the  house.  Lance- 
lot, desperate,  seized  the  bridge-rail,  tore  it  off 
by  sheer  strength,  and  hurled  it  far  into  the 
pool.  Argemone  saw  it,  and  remembered  it,  like 
a  true  woman.  Ay,  be  as  Manichaean-sentimental 
as  you  will,  fair  ladies,  physical  prowess,  that 
Eden-right  of  manhood,  is  sure  to  tell  upon  your 
hearts ! 

Again  the  colonel's  grizzled  head  reappeared, 
—  and,  oh  joy!  beneath  it  a  draggled  knot  of 
black  curls.  In  another  instant  he  had  hold  of 
the  rail,  and  quietly  floating  down  to  the  shallow, 
dragged  the  lifeless  giant  high  and  dry  on  a  patch 
of  gravel. 

Honoria  never  spoke.  She  rose,  walked  quietly 
back  along  the  beam,  passed  Argemone  and 
Lancelot  without  seeing  them,  and  firmly  but 
hurriedly  led  the  way  round  the  pool-side. 

Before  they  arrived  at  the  bank,  the  colonel 


68  Yeast 

had  carried  Tregarva  to  it.  Lancelot  and  two  or 
three  workmen,  whom  his  cries  had  attracted, 
lifted  the  body  on  to  the  meadow. 

Honoria  knelt  quietly  down  on  the  grass,  and 
watched,  silent  and  motionless,  the  dead  face, 
with  her  wide,  awe-struck  eyes. 

"  God  bless  her  for  a  kind  soul !  "  whispered 
the  wan  weather-beaten  field  drudges,  as  they 
crowded  round  the  body. 

"Get  out  of  the  way,  my  men!"  quoth  the 
colonel.  "Too  many  cooks  spoil  the  broth." 
And  he  packed  off  one  here  and  another  there  for 
necessaries,  and  commenced  trying  every  restora- 
tive means  with  the  ready  coolness  of  a  practised 
surgeon ;  while  Lancelot,  whom  he  ordered  about 
like  a  baby,  gulped  down  a  great  choking  lump 
of  envy,  and  then  tasted  the  rich  delight  of  for- 
getting himself  in  admiring  obedience  to  a  real 
superior. 

But  there  Tregarva  lay  lifeless,  with  folded 
hands,  and  a  quiet  satisfied  smile,  while  Honoria 
watched  and  watched  with  parted  lips,  uncon- 
scious of  the  presence  of  every  one. 

Five  minutes !  —  ten ! 

"  Carry  him  to  the  house, "  said  the  colonel,  in 
a  despairing  tone,  after  another  attempt. 

"He  moves!"  "No!"  "He  does!"  "He 
breathes  ! "  "  Look  at  his  eyelids  !  " 

Slowly  his  eyes  opened. 

"Where  am  I?  All  gone?  Sweet  dreams  — 
blessed  dreams !  " 

His  eye  met  Honoria's.  One  big  deep  sigh 
swelled  to  his  lips  and  burst.  She  seemed  to 
recollect  herself,  rose,  passed  her  arm  through 
Argemone's,  and  walked  slowly  away. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AN  "INGLORIOUS  MILTON" 

ARGEMONE,  sweet  prude,  thought  herself 
bound  to  read  Honoria  a  lecture  that 
night,  on  her  reckless  exhibition  of  feeling;  but 
it  profited  little.  The  most  consummate  cunning 
could  not  have  baffled  Argemone's  suspicions 
more  completely  than  her  sister's  utter  simplicity. 
She  cried  just  as  bitterly  about  Mops's  danger  as 
about  the  keeper's,  and  then  laughed  heartily  at 
Argemone's  solemnity ;  till  at  last,  when  pushed  a 
little  too  hard,  she  broke  out  into  something  very 
like  a  passion,  and  told  her  sister,  bitterly  enough, 
that  "  she  was  not  accustomed  to  see  men  drowned 
every  day,  and  begged  to  hear  no  more  about  the 
subject."  Whereat  Argemone  prudently  held  her 
tongue,  knowing  that  under  all  Honoria's  tender- 
ness lay  a  volcano  of  passionate  determination, 
which  was  generally  kept  down  by  her  affections, 
but  was  just  as  likely  to  be  maddened  by  them. 
And  so  this  conversation  only  went  to  increase  the 
unconscious  estrangement  between  them,  though 
they  continued,  as  sisters  will  do,  to  lavish  upon 
each  other  the  most  extravagant  protestations  of 
affection — vowing  to  live  and  die  only  for  each  other 
—  and  believing  honestly,  sweet  souls,  that  they 
felt  all  they  said ;  till  real  imperious  Love  came  in, 
in  one  case  of  the  two  at  least,  shouldering  all 


jo  Yeast 

other  affections  right  and  left;  and  then  the  two 
beauties  discovered,  as  others  do,  that  it  is  not  so 
possible  or  reasonable  as  they  thought  for  a 
woman  to  sacrifice  herself  and  her  lover  for  the 
sake  of  her  sister  or  her  friend. 

Next  morning  Lancelot  and  the  colonel  started 
out  to  Tregarva's  cottage,  on  a  mission  of  inquiry. 
They  found  the  giant  propped  up  in  bed  with 
pillows,  his  magnificent  features  looking  in  their 
paleness  more  than  ever  like  a  granite  Memnon. 
Before  him  lay  an  open  Pilgrim's  Progress,  and  a 
drawer  filled  with  feathers  and  furs,  which  he  was 
busily  manufacturing  into  trout  flies,  reading  as  he 
worked.  The  room  was  filled  with  nets,  guns,  and 
keepers'  tackle,  while  a  well-filled  shelf  of  books 
hung  by  the  wall. 

"  Excuse  my  rising,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  in  his 
slow,  staid  voice,  "  but  I  am  very  weak,  in  spite  of 
the  Lord's  goodness  to  me.  You  are  very  kind  to 
think  of  coming  to  my  poor  cottage." 

"  Well,  my  man,"  said  the  colonel,  "  and  how  are 
you  after  your  cold  bath?  You  are  the  heaviest 
fish  I  ever  landed  !  " 

"  Pretty  well,  thank  God,  and  you,  sir.  I  am  in 
your  debt,  sir,  for  the  dear  life.  How  shall  I  ever 
repay  you?" 

"Repay,  my  good  fellow?  You  would  have 
done  as  much  for  me." 

"  May  be ;  but  you  did  not  think  of  that  when 
you  jumped  in;  and  no  more  must  I  in  thanking 
you.  God  knows  how  a  poor  miner's  son  will 
ever  reward  you ;  but  the  mouse  repaid  the  lion, 
says  the  story,  and,  at  all  events,  I  can  pray  for 
you.  By  the  by,  gentlemen,  I  hope  you  have 
brought  up  some  trolling-tackle?" 


An  "Inglorious  Milton "  71 

"  We  came  up  to  see  you,  and  not  to  fish,"  said 
Lancelot,  charmed  with  the  stately  courtesy  of  the 
man. 

"  Many  thanks,  gentlemen ;  but  old  Harry  Verney 
was  in  here  just  now,  and  had  seen  a  great  jack 
strike,  at  the  tail  of  the  lower  reeds.  With  this 
fresh  wind  he  will  run  till  noon ;  and  you  are  sure 
of  him  with  a  dace.  After  that,  he  will  not  be  up 
again  on  the  shallows  till  sunset.  He  works  the 
works  of  darkness,  and  comes  not  to  the  light, 
because  his  deeds  are  evil." 

Lancelot  laughed.  "  He  does  but  follow  his 
kind,  poor  fellow." 

"  No  doubt,  sir,  no  doubt ;  all  the  Lord's  works 
are  good :  but  it  is  a  wonder  why  He  should  have 
made  wasps,  now,  and  blights,  and  vermin,  and 
jack,  and  such  evil-featured  things,  that  carry  spite 
and  cruelty  in  their  very  faces  —  a  great  wonder. 
Do  you  think,  sir,  all  those  creatures  were  in  the 
Garden  of  Eden?" 

"  You  are  getting  too  deep  for  me,"  said  Lance- 
lot. "But  why  trouble  your  head  about  fishing?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  preaching  to  you,  sir. 
I  'm  sure  I  forgot  myself.  If  you  will  let  me,  I  '11 
get  up  and  get  you  a  couple  of  bait  from  the  stew. 
You  '11  do  us  keepers  a  kindness,  and  prevent  sin, 
sir,  if  you  '11  catch  him.  The  squire  will  swear 
sadly  —  the  Lord  forgive  him  —  if  he  hears  of  a 
pike  in  the  trout-runs.  I  '11  get  up,  if  I  may 
trouble  you  to  go  into  the  next  room  a  minute." 

"  Lie  still,  for  Heaven's  sake.  Why  bother  your 
head  about  pike  now?  " 

"  It  is  my  business,  sir,  and  I  am  paid  for  it,  and 
I  must  do  it  thoroughly ;  —  and  abide  in  the  call- 
ing wherein  I  am  called,"  he  added,  in  a  sadder  tone. 


72  Yeast 

"  You  seem  to  be  fond  enough  of  it,  and  to 
know  enough  about  it,  at  all  events,"  said  the 
colonel,  "  tying  flies  here  on  a  sick-bed." 

"As  for  being  fond  of  it,  sir  —  those  creatures 
of  the  water  teach  a  man  many  lessons ;  and  when 
I  tie  flies,  I  earn  books." 

"How  then?" 

"  I  send  my  flies  all  over  the  country,  sir,  to 
Salisbury  and  Hungerford,  and  up  to  Winchester, 
even ;  and  the  money  buys  me  many  a  wise  book 
—  all  my  delight  is  in  reading;  perhaps  so  much 
the  worse  for  me." 

"So  much  the  better,  say,"  answered  Lancelot, 
warmly.  "  I  '11  give  you  an  order  for  a  couple  of 
pounds'  worth  of  flies  at  once." 

"The  Lord  reward  you,  sir,"  answered  the 
giant. 

"  And  you  shall  make  me  the  same  quantity," 
said  the  colonel.  "You  can  make  salmon-flies?" 

"  I  made  a  lot  by  pattern  for  an  Irish  gent,  sir." 

"  Well,  then,  we  '11  send  you  some  Norway 
patterns,  and  some  golden  pheasant  and  parrot 
feathers.  We  're  going  to  Norway  this  summer, 
you  know,  Lancelot " 

Tregarva  looked  up  with  a  quaint,  solemn 
hesitation. 

"  If  you  please,  gentlemen,  you  '11  forgive  a 
man's  conscience." 

"Well?" 

"  But  I  'd  not  like  to  be  a  party  to  the  making 
of  Norway  flies." 

"  Here  's  a  Protectionist,  with  a  vengeance  !  w 
laughed  the  colonel.  "  Do  you  want  to  keep  all 
us  fishermen  in  England?  eh?  to  fee  English 
keepers  ?  " 


An  "Inglorious  Milton"  73 

"  No,  sir.  There  's  pretty  fishing  in  Norway,  I 
hear,  and  poor  folk  that  want  money  more  than  we 
keepers.  God  knows  we  get  too  much  —  we  that 
hang  about  great  houses  and  serve  great  folks' 
pleasure  —  you  toss  the  money  down  our  throats, 
without  our  deserving  it;  and  we  spend  it  as  we 
get  it  —  a  deal  too  fast  —  while  hard-working 
laborers  are  starving." 

"  And  yet  you  would  keep  us  in  England  ?  " 

"  Would  God  I  could  !  " 

"Why  then,  my  good  fellow?"  asked  Lancelot, 
who  was  getting  intensely  interested  with  the  calm, 
self-possessed  earnestness  of  the  man,  and  longed 
to  draw  him  out. 

The  colonel  yawned. 

"  Well,  I  '11  go  and  get  myself  a  couple  of  bait. 
Don't  you  stir,  my  good  parson-keeper.  Down 
charge,  I  say !  Odd  if  I  don't  find  a  bait-net,  and 
a  rod  for  myself,  under  the  verandah." 

"You  will,  colonel.  I  remember,  now,  I  set  it 
there  last  morning;  but  the  water  washed  many 
things  out  of  my  brains,  and  some  things  into 
them  —  and  I  forgot  it  like  a  goose." 

"  Well,  good-bye,  and  lie  still.  I  know  what  a 
drowning  is,  and  more  than  one.  A  day  and  a 
night  have  I  been  in  the  deep,  like  the  man  in  the 
good  book ;  and  bed  is  the  best  of  medicine  for  a 
ducking ;  "  and  the  colonel  shook  him  kindly  by 
the  hand  and  disappeared. 
-  ^Lancelot  sat  down  by  the  keeper's  bed. 

"  You  '11  get  those  fish-hooks  into  your  trousers, 
sir ;  and  this  is  a  poor  place  to  sit  down  in." 

"  I  want  you  to  say  your  say  out,  friend,  fish- 
hooks or  none." 

The  keeper  looked  warily  at  the  door,  and  when 


74  Yeast 

the  colonel  had  passed  the  window,  balancing  the 
trolling-rod  on  his  chin,  and  whistling  merrily,  he 
began,  — 

"  '  A  day  and  a  night  have  I  been  in  the  deep  ! ' 
—  and  brought  back  no  more  from  it !  And  yet 
the  Psalms  say  how  they  that  go  down  to  the  sea 
in  ships  see  the  works  of  the  Lord  !  —  If  the  Lord 
has  opened  their  eyes  to  see  them,  that  must 

mean " 

Lancelot  waited. 

"  What  a  gallant  gentleman  that  is,  and  a  valiant 
man  of  war,  I  '11  warrant,  —  and  to  have  seen  all 
the  wonders  he  has,  and  yet  to  be  wasting  his  spaa 
of  life  like  that!" 

Lancelot's  heart  smote  him. 

"  One  would  think,  sir You  '11  pardon  me 

for  speaking  out."  And  the  noble  face  worked,  as 
he  murmured  to  himself,  "  When  ye  are  brought 
before  kings  and  princes  for  my  name's  sake.  —  I 
dare  not  hold  my  tongue,  sir.  I  am  as  one  risen 
from  the  dead," — and  his  face  flashed  up  into 
sudden  enthusiasm,  —  "  and  woe  to  me  if  I  speak 
not.  Oh,  why,  why  are  you  gentlemen  running 
off  to  Norway,  and  foreign  parts,  whither  God  has 
not  called  you !  Are  there  no  graves  in  Egypt, 
that  you  must  go  out  to  die  in  the  wilderness  ?  " 

Lancelot,  quite  unaccustomed  to  the  language 
of  the  Dissenting  poor,  felt  keenly  the  bad  taste  of 
the  allusion. 

"  What  can  you  mean?  "  he  asked. 
"  Pardon  me,  sir,  if  I  cannot  speak  plainly ;  but 
are  there  not  temptations  enough  here  in  England 
that  you  must  go  to  waste  all  your  gifts,  your 
scholarship,  and  your  rank,  far  away  there  out  of 
the  sound  of  a  church-going  bell  ?  I  don't  deny 


An  "  Inglorious  Milton  "  75 

it's  a  great  temptation.  I  have  read  of  Norway 
wonders  in  a  book  of  one  Miss  Martineau,  with  a 
strange  name." 

"  Feats  on  the  Fiord  ?  " 

"  That 's  it,  sir.  Her  books  are  grand  books  to 
set  one  a-thinking ;  but  she  don't  seem  to  see  the 
Lord  in  all  things,  does  she,  sir?" 

Lancelot  parried  the  question. 

"  You  are  wandering  a  little  from  the  point." 

"So  I  am,  and  thank  you  for  the  rebuke. 
There's  where  I  find  you  scholars  have  the  ad- 
vantage of  us  poor  fellows,  who  pick  up  knowl- 
edge as  we  can.  Your  book-learning  makes  you 
stick  to  the  point  so  much  better.  You  are  taught 
how  to  think.  After  all — God  forgive  me  if  I'm 
wrong !  but  I  sometimes  think  that  there  must  be 
more  good  in  that  human  wisdom,  and  philosophy 
falsely  so  called,  than  we  Wesleyans  hold.  Oh, 
sir,  what  a  blessing  is  a  good  education !  What 
you  gentlemen  might  do  with  it,  if  you  did  but  see 
your  own  power !  Are  there  no  fish  in  England, 
sir,  to  be  caught?  precious  fish,  with  immortal 
souls?  And  is  there  not  One  who  has  said, 
*  Come  with  me,  and  I  will  make  you  fishers  of 
men'?'1 

''Would  you  have  us  all  turn  parsons?" 

"  Is  no  one  to  do  God's  work  except  the  parson, 
sir?  Oh,  the  game  that  you  rich  folks  have  in  your 
hands,  if  you  would  but  play  it!  Such  a  man  as 
Colonel  Bracebridge  now,  with  the  tongue  of  the 
serpent,  who  can  charm  any  living  soul  he  likes 
to  his  will,  as  a  stoat  charms  a  rabbit.  Or  you, 
sir,  with  your  tongue:— you  have  charmed  one 
precious  creature  already.  I  can  see  it:  though 
neither  of  you  know  it,  yet  I  know  it" 


7  6  Yeast 

Lancelot  started,  and  blushed  crimson. 

"  Oh,  that  I  had  your  tongue,  sir !  "  And 
the  keeper  blushed  crimson,  too,  and  went  on 
hastily,  — 

"  But  why  could  you  not  charm  all  alike  ?  Do 
not  the  poor  want  you  as  well  as  the  rich?" 

"  What  can  I  do  for  the  poor,  my  good  fellow? 
And  what  do  they  want?  Have  they  not  houses, 
work,  a  church,  and  schools,  —  and  poor-rates  to 
fall  back  on?" 

The  keeper  smiled  sadly. 

"  To  fall  back  on,  indeed !  and  down  on,  too. 
At  all  events,  you  rich  might  help  to  make  Chris- 
tians of  them,  and  men  of  them.  For  I  'm  begin- 
ning to  fancy  strangely,  in  spite  of  all  the  preachers 
say,  that,  before  ever  you  can  make  them  Chris- 
tians, you  must  make  them  men  and  women." 

"Are  they  not  so  already?  " 

"  Oh,  sir,  go  and  see !  How  can  a  man  be  a 
man  in  those  crowded  styes,  sleeping  packed 
together  like  Irish  pigs  in  a  steamer,  never  out  of 
the  fear  of  want,  never  knowing  any  higher  amuse- 
ment than  the  beershop  ?  Those  old  Greeks  and 
Romans,  as  I  read,  were  more  like  men  than  half 
our  English  laborers.  Go  and  see!  Ask  that 
sweet  heavenly  angel,  Miss  Honoria," — and  the 
keeper  again  blushed, — "and  she,  too,  will  tell 
you.  I  think  sometimes  if  she  had  been  born  and 
bred  like  her  father's  tenants'  daughters,  to  sleep 
where  they  sleep,  and  hear  the  talk  they  hear,  and 
see  the  things  they  see,  what  would  she  have  been 
now?  We  mustn't  think  of  it."  And  the  keeper 
turned  his  head  away,  and  fairly  burst  into  tears. 

Lancelot  was  moved. 

"  Are  the  poor  very  immoral,  then?" 


An  "Inglorious  Milton'*  77 

"You  ask  the  rector,  sir,  how  many  children 
hereabouts  are  born  within  six  months  of  the  wed- 
ding-day. None  of  them  marry,  sir,  till  the  devil 
forces  them.  There's  no  sadder  sight  than  a 
laborer's  wedding  nowadays.  You  never  see  the 
parents  come  with  them.  They  just  get  another 
couple,  that  are  keeping  company,  like  themselves, 
and  come  sneaking  into  church,  looking  all  over 
as  if  they  were  ashamed  of  it  —  and  well  they 
may  be !  " 

"Is  it  possible?" 

"  I  say,  sir,  that  God  makes  you  gentlemen, 
gentlemen,  that  you  may  see  into  these  things. 
You  give  away  your  charities  kindly  enough,  but 
you  don't  know  the  folks  you  give  to.  If  a  few 
of  you  would  but  be  like  the  blessed  Lord,  and 
stoop  to  go  out  of  the  road,  just  behind  the  hedge, 
for  once,  among  the  publicans  and  harlots  !  Were 
you  ever  at  a  country  fair,  sir?  Though  I  suppose 
I  am  rude  for  fancying  that  you  could  demean 
yourself  to  such  company." 

"  I  should  not  think  it  demeaning  myself,"  said 
Lancelot,  smiling ;  "  but  I  never  was  at  one,  and  I 
should  like  for  once  to  see  the  real  manners  of  the 
poor." 

"  I  'm  no  haunter  of  such  places  myself,  God 
knows ;  but  —  I  see  you  're  in  earnest  now  —  will 
you  come  with  me,  sir,  —  for  once  ?  for  God's  sake 
and  the  poor's  sake  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  delighted." 

"  Not  after  you  've  been  there,  I  am  afraid." 

"  Well,  it 's  a  bargain  when  you  are  recovered. 
And,  in  the  meantime,  the  squire's  orders  are,  that 
you  lie  by  for  a  few  days  to  rest ;  and  Miss  Hono- 
ria's,  too ;  and  she  has  sent  you  down  some  wine." 


78  Yeast 

"  She  thought  of  me,  did  she  ?  "  and  the  still  sad 
face  blazed  out  radiant  with  pleasure,  and  then 
collapsed  as  suddenly  into  deep  melancholy. 

Lancelot  saw  it,  but  said  nothing ;  and  shaking 
him  heartily  by  the  hand,  had  his  shake  returned 
by  an  iron  grasp,  and  slipped  silently  out  of  the 
cottage. 

The  keeper  lay  still,  gazing  on  vacancy.  Once 
he  murmured  to  himself: 

"  Through  strange  ways  —  strange  ways  —  and 
though  he  let  them  wander  out  of  the  road  in  the 
wilderness ;  —  we  know  how  that  goes  on " 

And  then  he  fell  into  a  mixed  meditation—- 
perhaps  into  a  prayer. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  SHAM  IS  WORSE  THAN  NOTHING 

AT  last,  after  Lancelot  had  waited  long  in  vainf 
came  his  cousin's  answer  to  the  letter  which 
I  gave  in  my  second  chapter. 

"  You  are  not  fair  to  me,  good  cousin  ,  .  .  but  I  have 
given  up  expecting  fairness  from  Protestants.  I  do  not. 
say  that  the  front  and  the  back  of  my  head  have  different 
makers,  any  more  than  that  doves  and  vipers  have  .  .  . 
and  yet  I  kill  the  viper  when  I  meet  him  .  .  .  and  so  do 
you.  .  .  .  And  yet,  are  we  not  taught  that  our  animal 
nature  is  throughout  equally  viperous  ?  .  .  .  The  Catho- 
lic Church,  at  least,  so  teaches.  .  .  .  She  believes  in 
the  corruption  of  human  nature.  She  believes  in  the 
literal  meaning  of  Scripture.  She  has  no  wish  to  para- 
phrase away  St.  Paul's  awful  words,  that  "in  his  flesh 
dwelleth  no  good  thing,"  by  the  unscientific  euphemisms 
of  "  fallen  nature  "  or  "  corrupt  humanity."  The  boasted 
discovery  of  phrenologists,  that  thought,  feeling,  and  pas- 
sion reside  in  this  material  brain  and  nerves  of  ours,  has 
ages  ago  been  anticipated  by  her  simple  faith  in  the  letter 
of  Scripture ;  a  faith  which  puts  to  shame  the  irreverent 
vagueness  and  fantastic  private  interpretations  of  those 
who  make  an  idol  of  that  very  letter  which  they  dare 
not  take  literally,  because  it  makes  against  their  self- 
willed  theories.  .  .  . 

"And  so  you  call  me  douce  and  meek?  .  .  .  You 
should  remember  what  I  once  was,  Lancelot  .  .  .  I,at 


8o  Yeast 

least,  have  not  forgotten  ...  I  have  not  forgotten  how 
that  very  animal  nature,  on  the  possession  of  which  you 
seem  to  pride  yourself,  was  in  me  only  the  parent  of 
remorse.  ...  I  know  it  too  well  not  to  hate  and  fear  it. 
Why  do  you  reproach  me,  if  I  try  to  abjure  it,  and  cast 
away  the  burden  which  I  am  too  weak  to  bear?  I  am 
weak  —  Would  you  have  me  say  that  I  am  strong? 
Would  you  have  me  try  to  be  a  Prometheus,  while  I  am 
longing  to  be  once  more  an  infant  on  a  mother's  breast? 
Let  me  alone  .  .  .  I  am  a  weary  child,  who  knows 
nothing,  can  do  nothing,  except  lose  its  way  in  arguings 
and  reasonings,  and  '  find  no  end,  in  wandering  mazes 
lost.'  Will  you  reproach  me,  because  when  I  see  a 
soft  cradle  lying  open  for  me  .  .  «>  with  a  Virgin  Mother's 
face  smiling  down  all  woman's  love  about  it  ...  I  long 
to  crawl  into  it,  and  sleep  awhile?  I  want  loving,  in- 
dulgent sympathy  ...  I  want  detailed,  explicit  guid- 
ance .  .  .  Have  you,  then,  found  so  much  of  them  in 
our  former  creed,  that  you  forbid  me  to  go  to  seek  them 
elsewhere,  in  the  Church  which  not  only  professes  them 
as  an  organized  system,  but  practises  them  ...  as  you 
would  find  in  your  first  half-hour's  talk  with  one  of  her 
priests  .  .  .  true  priests  .  .  .  who  know  the  heart  of 
man,  and  pity,  and  console,  and  bear  for  their  flock  the 
burdens  which  they  cannot  bear  themselves  ?  You  ask 
me  who  will  teach  a  fast  young  man  ?  .  .  .  I  answer,  the 
Jesuit.  Ay,  start  and  sneer,  at  that  delicate  woman-like 
tenderness,  that  subtle  instinctive  sympathy,  which  you 
have  never  felt  .  .  „  which  is  as  new  to  me,  alas,  as  it 
would  be  to  you !  For  if  there  be  none  nowadays  to 
teach  such  as  you,  who  is  there  who  will  teach  such  as 
me  ?  Do  not  fancy  that  I  have  not  craved  and  searched 
for  teachers  ...  I  went  to  one  party  long  ago,  and 
they  commanded  me,  as  the  price  of  their  sympathy, 
even  of  anything  but  their  denunciations,  to  ignore,  if 
not  to  abjure,  all  the  very  points  on  which  I  came  for 


A  Sham  is  Worse  than  Nothing      81 

light  —  my  love  for  the  beautiful  and  the  symbolic  — 
my  desire  to  consecrate  and  Christianize  it  —  my  longing 
for  a  human  voice  to  tell  me  with  authority  that  I  was 
forgiven  —  my  desire  to  find  some  practical  and  palpable 
communion  between  myself  and  the  saints  of  old.  They 
told  me  to  cast  away,  as  an  accursed  chaos,  a  thousand 
years  of  Christian  history,  and,  believe  that  the  devil  had 
been  for  ages  .  .  .  just  the  ages  I  thought  noblest,  most 
faithful,  most  interpenetrated  with  the  thought  of  God 
.  .  .  triumphant  over  that  church  with  which  He  had 
promised  to  be  till  the  end  of  the  world.  No  ...  by 
the  by,  they  made  two  exceptions  —  of  their  own 
choosing.  One  in  favor  of  the  Albigenses  .  .  .  who 
seemed  to  me,  from  the  original  documents,  to  have  been 
very  profligate  Infidels,  of  whom  the  world  was  well  rid 
.  .  .  and  the  Piedmontese  .  .  .  poor,  simple,  ill-used 
folk  enough,  but  who  certainly  cannot  be  said  to  have 
exercised  much  influence  on  the  destinies  of  mankind 
.  .  .  and  all  the  rest  was  chaos  and  the  pit.  There 
never  had  been,  never  would  be,  a  kingdom  of  God  on 
earth,  but  only  a  few  scattered  individuals,  each  selfishly 
intent  on  the  salvation  of  his  own  soul — without  organ- 
ization, without  unity,  without  common  purpose,  without 
even  a  masonic  sign  whereby  to  know  one  another  when 
they  chanced  to  meet  .  .  .  except  Shibboleths  which 
the  hypocrite  could  ape,  and  virtues  which  the  heathen 
have  performed  .  .  .  Would  you  have  had  me  accept 
such  a  "  Philosophy  of  History  "  ? 

"  And  then  I  went  to  another  school  ...  or  rather 
wandered  up  and  down  between  those  whom  I  have  just 
described,  and  those  who  boast  on  their  side  prescriptive 
right,  and  apostolic  succession  .  .  .  and  I  found  that 
their  ancient  charter  went  back  —  just  three  hundred 
years  .  .  .  and  there  derived  its  transmitted  virtue,  it 
seemed  to  me,  by  something  very  like  obtaining  goods 
on  false  pretences,  from  the  very  church  which  it  now 
E— Vol.  V 


82  Yeast 

anathematizes.  .  Disheartened,  but  not  hopeless,  I  asked 
how  it  was  that  the  priesthood,  whose  hands  bestowed 
the  grace  of  ordination,  could  not  withdraw  it  ... 
whether,  at  least,  the  schismatic  did  not  forfeit  it  by  the 
very  act  of  schism  .  .  .  and  instead  of  any  real  answer  to 
that  fearful  spiritual  dilemma,  they  set  me  down  to  folios 
of  Nag's  head  controversies  .  .  .  and  myths  of  an  inde- 
pendent British  Church,  now  represented,  strangely 
enough,  by  those  Saxons  who,  after  its  wicked  refusal  to 
communicate  with  them,  exterminated  it  with  fire  and 
sword,  and  derived  its  own  order  from  St.  Gregory  .  .  . 
and  decisions  of  mythical  old  councils  (held  by  bishops 
of  a  different  faith  and  practice  from  their  own),  from 
which  I  was  to  pick  the  one  point  which  made  for  them, 
and  omit  the  nine  which  made  against  them,  while  I  was 
to  believe,  by  a  stretch  of  imagination  ...  or  common 
honesty  .  .  .  which  I  leave  you  to  conceive,  that  the 
Church  of  Syria  in  the  fourth  century  was,  in  doctrine, 
practice,  and  constitution,  like  that  of  England  in  the 
nineteenth?  .  .  .  And  what  was  I  to  gain  by  all  this? 
.  .  .  For  the  sake  of  what  was  I  to  strain  logic  and  con- 
science ?  To  believe  myself  a  member  of  the  same  body 
with  all  the  Christian  nations  of  the  earth  ?  —  to  be  able 
to  hail  the  Frenchman,  the  Italian,  the  Spaniard,  as  a 
brother  —  to  have  hopes  even  of  the  German  and  the 
Swede  ...  if  not  in  this  life,  still  in  the  life  to  come  ? 
No  ...  to  be  able  to  sit  apart  from  all  Christendom  in 
the  exclusive  pride  of  insular  Pharisaism;  to  claim  for 
the  modern  littleness  of  England  the  infallibility  which  I 
denied  to  the  primeval  mother  of  Christendom,  not  to 
enlarge  my  communion  to  the  Catholic,  but  excommuni- 
cate, to  all  practical  purposes,  over  and  above  the 
Catholics,  all  other  Protestants  except  my  own  sect  .  .  . 
or  rather,  in  practice,  except  my  own  party  in  my  own 
sect.  .  .  .  And  this  was  believing  in  one  Catholic  and 
Apostolic  church  !  .  .  .  this  was  to  be  my  share  of  the 


A  Sham  is  Worse  than  Nothing      83 

communion  of  saints  !  And  these  were  the  theories 
which  were  to  satisfy  a  soul  which  longed  for  a  kingdom 
of  God  on  earth,  which  felt  that  unless  the  highest  of 
His  promises  are  a  mythic  dream,  there  must  be  some 
system  on  the  earth  commissioned  to  fulfil  those 
promises  j  some  authority  divinely  appointed  to  regen- 
erate, and  rule,  and  (  guide  the  lives  of  men,  and  the 
destinies  of  nations ;  who  must  go  mad,  unless  he  finds 
that  history  is  not  a  dreary  aimless  procession  of  lost 
spirits  descending  into  the  pit,  or  that  the  salvation  of 
millions  does  not  depend  on  an  obscure  and  contro- 
verted hair's  breadth  of  ecclesiastic  law. 

"  I  have  tried  them  both,  Lancelot,  and  found  them 
wanting;  and  now  but  one  road  remains.  .  .  .  Home, 
to  the  fountain-head ;  to  the  mother  of  all  the  churches 
whose  fancied  cruelty  to  her  children  can  no  more 
destroy  her  motherhood,  than  their  confest  rebellion  can. 
.  .  .  Shall  I  not  hear  her  voice,  when  she,  and  she  alone 
cries  to  me,  '  I  have  authority  and  commission  from  the 
King  of  kings  to  regenerate  the  world.  History  is  a 
chaos,  only  because  mankind  has  been  ever  rebelling 
against  me,  its  lawful  ruler  .  .  .  and  yet  not  a  chaos  .  .  . 
for  I  still  stand,  and  grow  rooted  on  the  rock  of  ages, 
and  under  my  boughs  are  fowl  of  every  wing.  I  alone 
have  been  and  am  consistent,  progressive,  expansive, 
welcoming  every  race  and  intellect  and  character  into 
its  proper  place  in  my  great  organism  .  .  .  meeting 
alike  the  wants  of  the  king  and  the  beggar,  the  artist  and 
the  devotee  .  .  .  there  is  free  room  for  all  within  my 
heaven-wide  bosom.  Infallibility  is  not  the  exclusive 
heritage  of  one  proud  and  ignorant  Island,  but  of  a 
system  which  knows  no  distinction  of  language,  race,  or 
clime.  The  communion  of  saints  is  not  a  bygone  tale, 
•for  my  saints,  redeemed  from  every  age  and  every 
nation  under  heaven,  still  live,  and  love,  and  help  and 
intercede.  The  union  of  heaven  and  earth  is  not  a 


84  Yeast 

barbaric  myth ;  for  I  have  still  my  miracles,  my  Host, 
my  exorcism,  my  absolution.  The  present  rule  of  God 
is  still,  as  ever,  a  living  reality;  for  I  rule  in  His  name, 
and  fulfil  all  His  will.' 

"  How  can  I  turn  away  from  such  a  voice  ?  What  if 
some  of  her  doctrines  may  startle  my  untutored  and 
ignorant  understanding?  ...  If  she  is  the  appointed 
teacher,  she  will  know  best  what 'truths  to  teach.  .  .  . 
The  disciple  is  not  above  his  master  ...  or  wise  in  re- 
quiring him  to  demonstrate  the  abstrusest  problems  .  .  . 
spiritual  problems,  too  .  .  .  before  he  allows  his  right  to 
teach  the  elements.  Humbly  I  must  enter  the  temple 
porch ;  gradually  and  trustfully  proceed  with  my  initia- 
tion. .  .  .  When  that  is  past,  and  not  before  .  .  .  shall 
I  be  a  fit  judge  of  the  mysteries  of  the  inner  shrine. 

"  There  ...  I  have  written  a  long  letter  .  .  .  with 
my  own  heart's  blood.  .  .  .  Think  over  it  well,  before 
you  despise  it.  ...  And  if  you  can  refute  it  for  me, 
and  sweep  the  whole  away  like  a  wild  dream  when  one 
awakes,  none  will  be  more  thankful  —  paradoxical  as  it 
may  seem  —  than  your  unhappy  Cousin." 

And  Lancelot  did  consider  that  letter,  and 
answered  it  as  follows: 

"  It  is  a  relief  to  me  at  least,  dear  Luke,  that  you  are 
going  to  Rome  in  search  of  a  great  idea,  and  not  merely 
from  selfish  superstitious  terror  (as  I  should  call  it) 
about  the  '  salvation  of  your  soul.'  And  it  is  a  new 
and  very  important  thought  to  me,  that  Rome's  scheme 
of  this  world,  rather  than  of  the  next,  forms  her  chief 
allurement.  But  as  for  that  flesh  and  spirit  question,  or 
fhe  apostolic  succession  one  either ;  all  you  seem  to  me, 
as  a  looker  on,  to  have  logically  proved,  is  that  Protes- 
tants, orthodox  and  unorthodox,  must  be  a  little  more 
scientific  and  careful  in  their  use  of  the  terms.  But  as 


A  Sham  is  Worse  than  Nothing      85 

for  adopting  your  use  of  them,  and  the  consequences 
thereof —  you  must  pardon  me,  and,  I  suspect,  them  too. 
Not  that.  Anything  but  that.  Whatever  is  right,  that 
is  wrong.  Better  to  be  inconsistent  in  truth,  than  con- 
sistent in  a  mistake.  And  your  Romish  idea  of  man  is  a 
mistake  —  utterly  wrong  and  absurd  —  except  in  the 
one  requirement  of  righteousness  and  godliness,  which 
Protestants  and  heathen  philosophers  have  required  and 
do  require  just  as  much  as  you.  My  dear  Luke,  your 
ideal  men  and  women  won't  do  —  for  they  are  not  men 
and  women  at  all,  but  what  you  call  '  saints.'  .  .  .  Your 
Calendar,  your  historic  list  of  the  earth's  worthies,  won't 
do  —  not  they,  but  others,  are  the  people  who  have 
brought  Humanity  thus  far.  I  don't  deny  that  there  are 
great  souls  among  them;  Beckets,  and  Hugh  Gros- 
tetes,  and  Elizabeths  of  Hungary.  But  you  are  the  last 
people  to  praise  them,  for  you  don't  understand  them. 
Thierry  honors  Thomas  a  Becket  more  than  all  Canon- 
izations and  worshippers  do,  because  he  does  see  where 
the  man's  true  greatness  lay,  and  you  don't.  Why,  you 
may  hunt  all  Surius  for  such  a  biography  of  a  mediaeval 
worthy  as  Carlyle  has  given  of  your  Abbot  Samson.  1 
have  read,  or  tried  to  read  your  Surius,  and  Alban 
Butler,  and  so  forth  —  and  they  seemed  to  me.  bats  and 
asses  —  One  really  pitied  the  poor  saints  and  martyrs 
for  having  such  blind  biographers  —  such  dunghill  cocks, 
who  overlooked  the  pearl  of  real  human  love  and  noble- 
ness in  them,  in  their  greediness  to  snatch  up  and 
parade  the  rotten  chaff  of  superstition,  and  self-torture, 
and  spiritual  dyspepsia,  which  had  overlaid  it.  My  dear 
fellow,  that  Calendar  ruins  your  cause  —  you  are  sacres 
aristocrates  —  kings  and  queens,  bishops  and  virgins  by 
the  hundred  at  one  end ;  a  beggar  or  two  at  the  other ; 
and  but  one  real  human  lay  St.  Homobonus  to  fill  up 
the  great  gulf  between  —  A  pretty  list  to  allure  the  Eng- 
lish middle  classes,  or  the  Lancashire  working-men  !  — 


86  Yeast 

Almost  as  charmingly  suited  to  England  as  the  present 
free,  industrious,  enlightened,  and  moral  state  of  that 
Eternal  City,  which  has  been  blest  with  the  visible 
presence  and  peculiar  rule,  temporal  as  well  as  spiritual, 
too,  of  your  Dalai  Lama.  His  pills  do  not  seem  to  have 
had  much  practical  effect  there.  .  .  .  My  good  Luke, 
till  he  can  show  us  a  little  better  specimen  of  the  king- 
dom of  Heaven  organized  and  realized  on  earth,  in  the 
country  which  does  belong  to  him,  soil  and  people,  body 
and  soul,  we  must  decline  his  assistance  in  realizing  that 
kingdom  in  countries  which  don't  belong  to  him.  If 
the  state  of  Rome  don't  show  his  idea  of  man  and 
society  to  be  a  rotten  lie,  what  proof  would  you  have  ?  • 
.  .  .  perhaps  the  charming  results  of  a  century  of  Jes- 
uitocracy,  as  they  were  represented  on  a  French  stage 
in  the  year  1793?  I  can't  answer  his  arguments,  you 
see,  or  yours  either ;  I  am  an  Englishman,  and  not  a 
controversialist.  The  only  answer  I  give  is  John  Bull's 
old  dumb  instinctive  '  Everlasting  No  ! '  which  he  will 
stand  by,  if  need  be,  with  sharp  shot  and  cold  steel  — 
'  Not  that ;  anything  but  that.  No  kingdom  of  Heaven 
at  all  for  us,  if  the  kingdom  of  Heaven  is  like  that.  No 
heroes  at  all  for  us,  if  their  heroism  is  to  consist  in  their 
being  not-men.  Better  no  society  at  all,  but  only  a 
competitive  wild -beast's  den,  than  a  sham  society.  Bet- 
ter no  faith,  no  hope,  no  love,  no  God,  than  shams 
thereof.'  I  take  my  stand  on  fact  and  nature ;  you  may 
call  them  idols  and  phantoms ;  I  say  they  need  be  so  no 
longer  to  any  man,  since  Bacon  has  taught  us  to  dis- 
cover the  Eternal  Laws  under  the  outward  phenomena. 
Here  on  blank  materialism  will  I  stand,  and  testify 
against  all  Religions  and  Gods  whatsoever,  if  they  must 
needs  be  like  that  Roman  religion,  that  Roman  God.  I 
don't  believe  they  need  —  not  I.  But  if  they  need,  they 
must  go.  We  cannot  have  a  Deus  quidam  deceptor.  If 
there  be  a  God,  these  trees  and  stones,  these  beasts  and 


A  Sham  is  Worse  than  Nothing      87 

birds  must  be  His  will,  whatever  else  is  not.  My  body, 
and  brain,  and  faculties,  and  appetites  must  be  His  will, 
whatever  else  is  not.  Whatsoever  I  can  do  with  them 
in  accordance  with  the  constitution  of  them  and  nature 
must  be  His  will,  whatever  else  is  not.  Those  laws  of 
Nature  must  reveal  Him,  and  be  revealed  by  Him,  what- 
ever else  is  not.  Man's  scientific  conquest  of  nature 
must  be  one  phase  of  His  Kingdom  on  Earth,  whatever 
else  is  not.  I  don't  deny  that  there  are  spiritual  laws 
which  man  is  meant  to  obey  —  How  can  I,  who  feel  in 
my  own  daily  and  inexplicable  unhappiness  the  fruits  of 
having  broken  them?  —  But  I  do  say,  that  those  spiritual 
laws  must  be  in  perfect  harmony  with  every  fresh  physi- 
cal law  which  we  discover  :  that  they  cannot  be  intended 
to  compete  self-destructively  with  each  other ;  that  the 
spiritual  cannot  be  intended  to  be  perfected  by  ignoring 
or  crushing  the  physical,  unless  God  is  a  deceiver,  and 
His  universe  a  self-contradiction.  And  by  this  test 
alone  will  I  try  all  theories,  and  dogmas,  and  spiritu- 
alities whatsoever  —  Are  they  in  accordance  with  the 
laws  of  nature?  And  therefore  when  your  party  com- 
pare sneeringly  Romish  sanctity  and  English  civiliza- 
tion, I  say,  'Take  you  the  sanctity,  and  give  me  the 
civilization  ! '  The  one  may  be  a  dream,  for  it  is  un- 
natural ;  the  other  cannot  be,  for  it  is  natural ;  and  not 
an  evil  in  it  at  which  you  sneer  but  is  discovered,  day  by 
day,  to  be  owing  to  some  infringement  of  the  laws  of 
nature.  When  we  'draw  bills  on  nature,'  as  Carlyle 
says,  '  she  honors  them,'  —  our  ships  do  sail ;  our  mills 
do  work;  our  doctors  do  cure;  our  soldiers  do  fight. 
And  she  does  not  honor  yours ;  for  your  Jesuits  have, 
by  their  own  confession,  to  lie,  to  swindle,  to  get  even 
man  to  accept  theirs  for  them.  So  give  me  the  political 
economist,  the  sanitary  reformer,  the  engineer;  and 
take  your  saints  and  virgins,  relics  and  miracles.  The 
spinning-jenny  and  the  railroad,  Cunard's  liners  and  the 


88  Yeast 

electric  telegraph,  are  to  me,  if  not  to  you,  signs  that  we 
are,  on  some  points  at  least,  in  harmony  with  the  uni- 
verse ;  that  there  is  a  mighty  spirit  working  among  us, 
who  cannot  be  your  anarchic  and  destroying  devil,  and 
therefore  may  be  the  ordering  and  creating  God." 

Which  of  them  do  you  think,  reader,  had  most 
right  on  his  side? 


CHAPTER  VI 

VOGUE  LA  GALERE 

LANCELOT  was  now  so  far  improved  in 
health  as  to  return  to  his  little  cottage 
ornee.  He  gave  himself  up  freely  to  his  new  pas- 
sion. With  his  comfortable  fortune  and  good 
connections,  the  future  seemed  bright  and  pos- 
sible enough  as  to  circumstances.  He  knew  that 
Argemone  felt  for  him;  how  much  it  seemed 
presumptuous  even  to  speculate,  and  as  yet  no 
golden-visaged  meteor  had  arisen  portentous  in 
his  amatory  zodiac.  No  rich  man  had  stepped 
in  to  snatch,  in  spite  of  all  his  own  flocks  and 
herds,  at  the  poor  man's  own  ewe-lamb,  and  set 
him  barking  at  all  the  world,  as  many  a  poor 
lover  has  to  do  in  defence  of  his  morsel  of  enjoy- 
ment, now  turned  into  a  mere  bone  of  contention 
and  loadstone  for  all  hungry  kites  and  crows. 

All  that  had  to  be  done  was  to  render  himself 
worthy  of  her,  and  in  doing  so,  to  win  her.  And 
now  he  began  to  feel  more  painfully  his  ignorance 
of  society,  of  practical  life,  and  the  outward 
present.  He  blamed  himself  angrily  for  having, 
as  he  now  thought,  wasted  his  time  on  ancient 
histories  and  foreign  travels,  while  he  neglected 
the  living  wonderful  present,  which  weltered 
daily  round  him,  every  face  embodying  a  living 
soul.  For  now  he  began  to  feel  that  those  faces 


90  Yeast 

did  hide  living  souls;  formerly  he  had  half  be- 
lieved —  he  had  tried,  but  from  laziness,  to  make 
himself  wholly  believe  —  that  they  were  all  empty 
masks,  phantasies,  without  interest  or  significance 
for  him.  But,  somehow,  in  the  light  of  his  new 
love  for  Argemone,  the  whole  human  race  seemed 
glorified,  brought  nearer,  endeared  to  him.  So 
it  must  be.  He  had  spoken  of  a  law  wider  than 
he  thought  in  his  fancy,  that  the  angels  might 
learn  love  for  all  by  love  for  an  individual.  Do 
we  not  all  learn  love  so  ?  Is  it  not  the  first  touch 
of  the  mother's  bosom  which  awakens  in  the 
infant's  heart  that  spark  of  affection  which  is 
hereafter  to  spread  itself  out  towards  every  human 
being,  and  to  lose  none  of  its  devotion  for  its 
first  object,  as  it  expands  itself  to  innumerable 
new  ones  ?  Is  it  not  by  love,  too,  —  by  looking 
into  loving  human  eyes,  by  feeling  the  care  of 
loving  hands,  —  that  the  infant  first  learns  that 
there  exist  other  beings  beside  itself?  —  that 
every  body  which  it  sees  expresses  a  heart  and 
will  like  its  own  ?  Be  sure  of  it.  Be  sure  that 
to  have  found  the  key  to  one  heart  is  to  have 
found  the  key  to  all;  that  truly  to  love  is  truly 
to  know;  and  truly  to  love  one,  is  the  first  step 
towards  truly  loving  all  who  bear  the  same  flesh 
and  blood  with  the  beloved.  Like  children,  we 
must  dress  up  even  our  unseen  future  in  stage 
properties  borrowed  from  the  tried  and  palpable 
present,  ere  we  can  look  at  it  without  horror. 
We  fear  and  hate  the  utterly  unknown,  and  it 
only.  Even  pain  we  hate  only  when  we  cannot 
know  it;  when  we  can  only  feel  it,  without 
explaining  it,  and  making  it  harmonize  with  our 
notions  of  our  own  deserts  and  destiny.  And  as 


Vogue  la  Galere  91 

for  human  beings,  there  surely  it  stands  true, 
wherever  else  it  may  not,  that  all  knowledge  is 
love,  and  all  love  knowledge;  that  even  with 
the  meanest,  we  cannot  gain  a  glimpse  into  their 
inward  trials  and  struggles',  without  an  increase 
of  sympathy  and  affection. 

Whether  he  reasoned  thus  or  not,  Lancelot 
found  that  his  new  interest  in  the  working  classes 
was  strangely  quickened  by  his  passion.  It 
seemed  the  shortest  and  clearest  way  toward  a 
practical  knowledge  of  the  present.  "Here,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "in  the  investigation  of  existing 
relations  between  poor  and  rich,  I  shall  gain 
more  real  acquaintance  with  English  society,  than 
by  dawdling  centuries  in  exclusive  drawing- 
rooms.  " 

The  inquiry  had  not  yet  presented  itself  to 
him  as  a  duty;  perhaps  so  much  the  better,  that 
it  might  be  the  more  thoroughly  a  free-will  offer- 
ing of  love.  At  least  it  opened  a  new  field  of 
amusement  and  knowledge;  it  promised  him  new 
studies  of  human  life ;  and  as  he  lay  on  his  sofa 
and  let  his  thoughts  flow,  Tregarva's  dark  revela- 
tions began  to  mix  themselves  with  dreams  about 
the  regeneration  of  the  Whitford  poor,  and  those 
again  with  dreams  about  the  heiress  of  Whitford ; 
and  many  a  luscious  scene  and  noble  plan  rose 
brightly  detailed  in  his  exuberant  imagination. 
For  Lancelot,  like  all  born  artists,  could  only 
think  in  a  concrete  form.  He  never  worked  out 
a  subject  without  embodying  it  in  some  set  ora- 
tion, dialogue,  or  dramatic  castle  in  the  air. 

But  the  more  he  dreamt,  the  more  he  felt  that 
a  material  beauty  of  flesh  and  blood  required  a 
material  house,  baths,  and  boudoirs,  conserva- 


92  Yeast 

tories,  and  carriages;  a  safe  material  purse,  and 
fixed  material  society;  law  and  order,  and  the 
established  framework  of  society,  gained  an  im- 
portance in  his  eyes  which  they  had  never  had 
before. 

"Well,"  he  said  to  himself,  "I  am  turning 
quite  practical  and  auld-warld.  Those  old  Greeks 
were  not  so  far  wrong  when  they  said  that  what 
made  men  citizens,  patriots,  heroes,  was  the  love 
of  wedded  wife  and  child." 

"  Wedded  wife  and  child  ! "  —  He  shrank  in 
from  the  daring  of  the  delicious  thought,  as  if  he 
had  intruded  without  invitation  into  a  hidden 
sanctuary,  and  looked  round  for  a  book  to  drive 
away  the  dazzling  picture.  But  even  there  his 
thoughts  were  haunted  by  Argemone's  face,  and 

"  When  his  regard 

Was  raised  by  intense  pensiveness,  two  eyes, 
Two  starry  eyes,  hung  in  the  gloom  of  thought, 
And  seemed,  with  their  serene  and  azure  smiles, 
To  beckon  him." 

He  took  up,  with  a  new  interest,  "Chartism," 
which  alone  of  all  Mr.  Carlyle's  works  he  had 
hitherto  disliked,  because  his  own  luxurious  day- 
dreams had  always  flowed  in  such  sad  discord 
with  the  terrible  warnings  of  the  modern  seer, 
and  his  dark  vistas  of  starvation,  crime,  neglect, 
and  discontent. 

"Well,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  closed  the 
book,  "  I  suppose  it  is  good  for  us  easy-going 
ones  now  and  then  to  face  the  possibility  of  a 
change.  Gold  has  grown  on  my  back  as  feathers 
do  on  geese,  without  my  own  will  or  deed;  but 
considering  that  gold,  like  feathers,  is  equally 


Vogue  la  Gal  ere  93 

useful  to  those  who  have  and  those  who  have  not, 
why,  it  is  worth  while  for  the  goose  to  remember 
that  he  may  possibly  one  day  be  plucked.  And 
what  remains  ?  '  lo, '  as  Medea  says.  .  .  .  But 
Argemone  ? "  .  .  .  And  Lancelot  felt,  for  the 
moment,  as  conservative  as  the  tutelary  genius 
of  all  special  constables. 

As  the  last  thought  passed  through  his  brain, 
Bracebridge's  little  mustang  slouched  past  the 
window,  ridden  (without  a  saddle)  by  a  horseman 
whom  there  was  no  mistaking,  for  no  one  but  the 
immaculate  colonel,  the  chevalier  sans  peur  et 
sans  reproche,  dared  to  go  about  the  country  "  such 
a  figure."  A  minute  afterwards  he  walked  in,  in 
a  student's  felt  hat,  a  ragged  heather-colored 
coatee,  and  old  white  "regulation  drills,"  shrunk 
half-way  up  his  legs,  a  pair  of  embroidered  Indian 
moccasins,  and  an  enormous  meerschaum  at  his 
button-hole. 

"  Where  have  you  been  this  last  week  ? " 

"  Over  head  and  ears  in  Young  England,  till  I 
fled  to  you  for  a  week's  common  sense.  A  glass 
of  cider,  for  mercy's  sake,  '  to  take  the  taste  of  it 
out  of  my  mouth,'  as  Bill  Sykes  has  it." 

"  Where  have  you  been  staying  ? " 

"  With  young  Lord  Vieuxbois,  among  high  art 
and  painted  glass,  spade  farms,  and  model  smell- 
traps,  rubricalities  and  sanitary  reforms,  and  all 
other  inventions,  possible  and  impossible,  for 
1  stretching  the  old  formulate  meet  the  new  fact,' 
as  your  favorite  prophet  says. " 

"  Till  the  old  formula  cracks  under  the  tension. " 

"  And  cracks  its  devotees,  too,  I  think.  Here 
comes  the  cider !  " 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,  you  must  not  laugh  at 


94  Yeast 

all  this.  Young  England  or  Peelite,  this  is  all 
right  and  noble.  What  a  yet  unspoken  poetry 
there  is  in  that  very  sanitary  reform !  It  is  the 
great  fact  of  the  age.  We  shall  have  men  arise 
and  write  epics  on  it,  when  they  have  learnt  that 
*  to  the  pure  all  things  are  pure,'  and  that  science 
and  usefulness  contain  a  divine  element,  even  in 
their  lowest  appliances." 

"  Write  one  yourself,  and  call  it  the  '  Chad- 
wickiad. '  " 

"Why  not? 

'  Smells  and  the  Man  I  sing.' 

There  's  a  beginning  at  once.  Why  don't  you 
rather,  with  your  practical  power,  turn  sanitary 
reformer  —  the  only  true  soldier  —  and  con- 
quer those  real  devils  and  '  natural  enemies'  of 
Englishmen,  carbonic  acid  and  sulphuretted 
hydrogen  ?  " 

"  Ce  n'est  pas  mon  m/tier,  my  dear  fellow.  I 
am  miserably  behind  the  age.  People  are  getting 
so  cursedly  in  earnest  nowadays,  that  I  shall  have 
to  bolt  to  the  backwoods  to  amuse  myself  in 
peace ;  or  else  sham  dumb  as  the  monkeys  do,  lest 
folks  should  find  out  that  I  'm  rational,  and  set 
me  to  work." 

Lancelot  laughed  and  sighed. 

"  But  how  on  earth  do  you  contrive  to  get  on  so 
well  with  men  with  whom  you  have  not  an  idea 
in  common !" 

"  Savoir  faire,  O  infant  Hercules !  own  daddy 
to  savoir  vivre.  I  am  a  good  listener;  and,  there- 
fore, the  most  perfect,  because  the  most  silent,  of 
flatterers.  When  they  talk  Puginesquery,  I  stick 
my  head  on  one  side  attentively,  and  '  think  the 


Vogue  la  Galere  95 

more,'  like  the  lady's  parrot.  I  have  been  all 
the  morning  looking  over  a  set  of  drawings  for 
my  lord's  new  chapel;  and  every  soul  in  the  party 
fancies  me  a  great  antiquary,  just  because  I  have 
been  retailing  to  B  as  my  own  everything  that 
A  told  me  the  moment  before." 

"I  envy  you  your  tact,  at  all  events." 

"Why  the  deuce  should  you?  You  may  rise 
in  time  to  something  better  than  tact;  to  what 
the  good  book,  I  suppose,  means  by  '  wisdom. ' 
Young  geniuses  like  you,  who  have  been  green 
enough  to  sell  your  souls  to  '  truth, '  must  not 
meddle  with  tact,  unless  you  wish  to  fare  as  the 
donkey  did  when  he  tried  to  play  lap-dog. " 

"At  all  events,  I  would  sooner  remain  cub  till 
they  run  me  down  and  eat  me,  than  give  up 
speaking  my  mind,"  said  Lancelot.  "Fool  I 
may  be,  but  the  devil  himself  sha'n't  make  me 
knave. " 

"  Quite  proper.  On  two  thousand  a  year  a 
man  can  afford  to  be  honest.  Kick  out  lustily 
right  and  left !  —  After  all,  the  world  is  like  a 
spaniel ;  the  more  you  beat  it,  the  better  it  likes 
you  —  if  you  have  money.  Only  don't  kick  too 
hard ;  for,  after  all,  it  has  a  hundred  million  pair 
of  shins  to  your  one. " 

"Don't  fear  that  I  shall  run  a-muck  against 
society  just  now.  I  am  too  thoroughly  out  of  my 
own  good  books.  I  have  been  for  years  laughing 
at  Young  England,  and  yet  its  little  ringer  is 
thicker  than  my  whole  body,  for  it  is  trying  to 
do  something;  and  I,  alas,  am  doing  utterly 
nothing.  I  should  be  really  glad  to  take  a 
lesson  of  these  men  and  their  plans  for  social 
improvement. " 


96  Yeast 

"You  will  have  a  fine  opportunity  this  evening. 
Don't  you  dine  at  Minchampstead?  " 

"  Yes.     Do  you  ?  " 

"Mr.  Jingle  dines  everywhere,  except  at  home. 
Will  you  take  me  over  in  your  trap?  " 

"Done.     But  whom  shall  we  meet  there?  " 

"  The  Lavingtons,  and  Vieuxbois,  and  Vaurien, 
and  a  parson  or  two,  I  suppose.  But  between 
Saint  Venus  and  Vieuxbois  you  may  soon  learn 
enough  to  make  you  a  sadder  man,  if  not  a  wiser 
one." 

"Why  not  a  wiser  one?  Sadder  than  now  I 
cannot  be;  or  less  wise,  God  knows." 

The  colonel  looked  at  Lancelot  with  one  of 
those  kindly  thoughtful  smiles,  which  came  over 
him  whenever  his  better  child's  heart  could  bubble 
up  through  the  thick  crust  of  worldliness. 

"My  young  friend,  you  have  been  a  little  too 
much  on  the  stilts  heretofore.  Take  care  that, 
now  you  are  off  them,  you  don't  lie  down  and 
sleep,  instead  of  walking  honestly  on  your  legs. 
Have  faith  in  yourself;  pick  these  men's  brains, 
and  all  men's.  You  can  do  it.  Say  to  yourself 
boldly,  as  the  false  prophet  in  India  said  to  the 
missionary,  '  I  have  fire  enough  in  my  stomach  to 
burn  up'  a  dozen  stucco  and  filigree  reformers 
and  *  assimilate  their  ashes  into  the  bargain,  like 
one  of  Liebig's  cabbages.' ' 

"  How  can  I  have  faith  in  myself,  when  I  am 
playing  traitor  to  myself  every  hour  in  the  day? 
And  yet  faith  in  something  I  must  have:  in 
woman,  perhaps. " 

"  Never !  "  said  the  colonel,  energetically.  "  In 
anything  but  woman!  She  must  be  led,  not 
leader.  If  you  love  a  woman,  make  her  have 


Vogue  la  Galere  97 

faith  in  you.     If  you  lean  on  her,  you  will  ruin 
yourself,   and  her  as  well." 

Lancelot  shook  his  head.     There  was  a  pause. 

"After  all,  colonel,  I  think  there  must  be  a 
meaning  in  those  old  words  our  mothers  used  to 
teach  us  about  '  having  faith  in  God. '  " 

The  colonel  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Quien  sabe?  said  the  Spanish  girl,  when  they 
asked  her  who  was  her  child's  father.  But  here 
comes  my  kit  on  a  clod's  back,  and  it  is  time  to 
dress  for  dinner." 

So  to  the  dinner-party  they  went. 

Lord  Minchampstead  was  one  of  the  few  noble- 
men Lancelot  had  ever  met  who  had  aroused  in 
him  a  thorough  feeling  of  respect.  He  was 
always  and  in  all  things  a  strong  man.  Naturally 
keen,  ready,  business-like,  daring,  he  had  carved 
out  his  own  way  through  life,  and  opened  his 
oyster  —  the  world,  neither  with  sword  nor  pen, 
but  with  steam  and  cotton.  His  father  was  Mr. 
Obadiah  Newbroom,  of  the  well-known  manu- 
facturing firm  of  Newbroom,  Stag,  and  Playforall. 
A  stanch  Dissenter  himself,  he  saw  with  a  slight 
pang  his  son  Thomas  turn  Churchman  as  soon  as 
the  young  man  had  worked  his  way  up  to  be  the 
real  head  of  the  firm.  But  this  was  the  only 
sorrow  which  Thomas  Newbroom,  now  Lord 
Minchampstead,  had  ever  given  his  father.  "I 
stood  behind  a  loom  myself,  my  boy,  when  I 
began  life;  and  you  must  do  with  great  means 
what  I  did  with  little  ones.  I  have  made  a 
gentleman  of  you,  you  must  make  a  nobleman  of 
yourself."  Those  were  almost  the  last  words  of 
the  stern,  thrifty,  old  Puritan  craftsman,  and  his 
son  never  forgot  them.  From  a  mill-owner  he 


98  Yeast 

grew  to  coal-owner,  ship-owner,  banker,  railway 
director,  money-lender  to  kings  and  princes ;  and 
last  of  all,  as  the  summit  of  his  Own  and  his 
compeer's  ambition,  to  land-owner.  He  had  half 
a  dozen  estates  in  as  many  different  counties. 
He  had  added  house  to  house,  and  field  to  field ; 
and  at  last  bought  Minchampstead  Park  and  ten 
thousand  acres,  for  two-thirds  its  real  value,  from 
that  enthusiastic  sportsman  Lord  Peu  de  Cervelle, 
whose  family  had  come  in  with  the  Conqueror, 
and  gone  out  with  George  IV.  So,  at  least,  they 
always  said;  but  it  was  remarkable  that  their 
name  could  never  be  traced  farther  back  than  the 
dissolution  of  the  monasteries :  and  calumnious 
Dryasdusts  would  sometimes  insolently  father 
their  title  on  James  I.  and  one  of  his  batches  of 
bought  peerages.  But  let  the  dead  bury  their 
dead.  There  was  now  a  new  lord  in  Minchamp- 
stead ;  and  every  country  Caliban  was  finding,  to 
his  disgust,  that  he  had  "got  a  new  master,"  and 
must  perforce  "be  a  new  man."  Oh!  how  the 
squires  swore  and  the  farmers  chuckled,  when  the 
"Parvenu"  sold  the  Minchampstead  hounds,  and 
celebrated  his  ist  of  September  by  exterminating 
every  hare  and  pheasant  on  the  estate !  How  the 
farmers  swore  and  the  laborers  chuckled  when  he 
took  all  the  cottages  into  his  own  hands  and 
rebuilt  them,  set  up  a  first-rate  industrial  school, 
gave  every  man  a  pig  and  a  garden,  and  broke  up 
all  the  commons  "  to  thin  the  labor-market. "  Oh, 
how  the  laborers  swore  and  the  farmers  chuckled, 
when  he  put  up  steam-engines  on  all  his  farms, 
refused  to  give  away  a  farthing  in  alms,  and 
enforced  the  new  Poor-law  to  the  very  letter. 
How  the  country  tradesmen  swore,  when  he  called 


Vogue  la  Galere  99 

them  "a  pack  of  dilatory  jobbers,"  and  announced 
his  intention  of  employing  only  London  workmen 
for  his  improvements.  Oh !  how  they  all  swore 
together  (behind  his  back,  of  course,  for  his 
dinners  were  worth  eating),  and  the  very  ladies 
said  naughty  words,  when  the  stern  political 
economist  proclaimed  at  his  own  table  that  "he 
had  bought  Minchampstead  for  merely  commer- 
cial purposes,  as  a  profitable  investment  of  capital, 
and  he  would  see  that,  whatever  else  it  did,  it 
should  pay" 

But  the  new  lord  heard  of  all  the  hard  words 
with  a  quiet  self-possessed  smile.  He  had  formed 
his  narrow  theory  of  the  universe,  and  he  was 
methodically  and  conscientiously  carrying  it  out. 
True,  too  often,  like  poor  Keats 's  merchant 
brothers,  — 

"  Half-ignorant,  he  turned  an  easy  wheel, 
Which  set  sharp  racks  at  work  to  pinch  and  peel." 

But  of  the  harm  which  he  did  he  was  uncon- 
scious; in  the  good  which  he  did  he  was  consis- 
tent and  indefatigable;  infinitely  superior,  with 
all  his  defects,  to  the  ignorant,  extravagant  do- 
nothing  Squire  Lavingtons  around  him.  At 
heart,  however  Mammoth-blinded,  he  was  kindly 
and  upright.  A  man  of  a  stately  presence;  a 
broad,  honest  north-country  face;  a  high  square 
forehead,  bland  and  unwrinkled.  I  sketch  him 
here  once  for  all,  because  I  have  no  part  for  him 
after  this  scene  in  my  corps  de  ballet. 

Lord  Minchampstead  had  many  reasons  for 
patronizing  Lancelot.  In  the  first  place,  he  had 
a  true  eye  for  a  strong  man  wherever  he  met  him ; 
in  the  next  place,  Lancelot's  uncle,  the  banker, 


ioo  Yeast 

was  a  stanch  Whig  ally  of  his  in  the  House.  "  In 
the  rotten-borough  times,  Mr.  Smith,"  he  once 
said  to  Lancelot,  "  we  could  have  made  a  senator 
of  you  at  once;  but,  for  the  sake  of  finality,  we 
were  forced  to  relinquish  that  organ  of  influence. 
The  Tories  had  abused  it,  really,  a  little  too  far; 
and  now  we  can  only  make  a  commissioner  of  you 
—  which,  after  all,  is  a  more  useful  post,  and  a 
more  lucrative  one."  But  Lancelot  had  not  as 
yet  "Galliolized,"  as  the  Irish  schoolmaster  used 
to  call  it,  and  cared  very  little  to  play  a  political 
ninth  fiddle. 

The  first  thing  which  caught  his  eyes  as  he 
entered  the  drawing-room  before  dinner  was 
Argemone  listening  in  absorbed  reverence  to  her 
favorite  vicar,  —  a  stern,  prim,  close-shaven,  dys- 
peptic man,  with  a  meek,  cold  smile,  which  might 
have  become  a  cruel  one.  He  watched  and 
watched  in  vain,  hoping  to  catch  her  eye;  but 
no  —  there  she  stood,  and  talked  and  listened 

"Ah,"  said  Bracebridge,  smiling,  "it  is  in 
vain,  Smith !  When  did  you  know  a  woman 
leave  the  Church  for  one  of  us  poor  laymen?" 

"  Good  heavens !  "  said  Lancelot,  impatiently, 
"why  will  they  make  such  fools  of  themselves  with 
clergymen?" 

"They  are  quite  right.  They  always  like  the 
strong  men  —  the  fighters  and  the  workers.  In 
Voltaire's  time  they  all  ran  after  the  philosophers. 
In  the  middle  ages,  books  tell  us,  they  worshipped 
the  knights  errant.  They  are  always  on  the  win- 
ning side,  the  cunning  little  beauties.  In  the  war- 
time, when  the  soldiers  had  to  play  the  world's 
game,  the  ladies  all  caught  the  red-coat  fever; 
now,  in  these  talking  and  thinking  days  (and  be 


Vogue  la  Galere  101 

hanged  to  them  for  bores),  they  have  the  black- 
coat  fever  for  the  same  reason.  The  parsons  are 
the  workers  nowadays  —  or  rather,  all  the  world 
expects  them  to  be  so.  They  have  the  game  in 
their  own  hands,  If  they  did  but  know  how  to 
play  it." 

Lancelot  stood  still,  sulking  over  many  thoughts. 
The  colonel  lounged  across  the  room  towards  Lord 
Vieuxbois,  a  quiet,  truly  high-bred  young  man, 
with  a  sweet  open  countenance,  and  an  ample 
forehead,  whose  size  would  have  vouched  for  great 
talents,  had  not  the  promise  been  contradicted  by 
the  weakness  of  the  over-delicate  mouth  and  chin. 

"  Who  is  that  with  whom  you  came  into  the 
room,  Bracebridge  ?  "  asked  Lord  Vieuxbois.  "  I 
am  sure  I  know  his  face." 

"Lancelot  Smith,  the  man  who  has  taken  the 
shooting-box  at  Lower  Whitford." 

"  Oh,  I  remember  him  well  enough  at  Cam- 
bridge !  He  was  one  of  a  set  who  tried  to  look 
like  blackguards,  and  really  succeeded  tolerably. 
They  used  to  eschew  gloves,  and  drink  nothing 
but  beer,  and  smoke  disgusting  short  pipes ;  and 
when  we  established  the  Coverley  Club  in  Trinity, 
they  set  up  an  opposition,  and  called  themselves 
the  Navvies.  And  they  used  to  make  piratical  ex- 
peditions down  to  Lynn  in  eight  oars,  to  attack 
bargemen,  and  fen  girls,  and  shoot  ducks,  and 
sleep  under  turf-stacks,  and  come  home  when  they 
had  drank  all  the  public-house  taps  dry.  I  re- 
member the  man  perfectly." 

"  Navvy  or  none,"  said  the  colonel,  "  he  has  just 
the  longest  head  and  the  noblest  heart  of  any  man 
I  ever  met.  If  he  does  not  distinguish  himself  be- 
fore he  dies,  I  know  nothing  of  human  nature." 


IO2  Yeast 

u  Ah  yes,  I  believe  he  is  clever  enough !  —  took 
a  good  degree,  a  better  one  than  I  did  —  but  hor- 
ribly eclectic;  full  of  mesmerism,  and  German 
metaphysics,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  heard 
of  him  one  night  last  spring,  on  which  he  had  been 
seen,  if  you  will  believe  it,  going  successively  into 
a  Swedenborgian  chapel,  the  Garrick's  Head,  and 
one  of  Elliotson's  magnetic  soirees.  What  can  you 
expect  after  that?  " 

"  A  great  deal,"  said  Bracebridge,  drily.  "  With 
such  a  head  as  he  carries  on  his  shoulders  the  man 
might  be  another  Mirabeau,  if  he  held  the  right 
cards  in  the  right  rubber.  And  he  really  ought  to 
suit  you,  for  he  raves  about  the  middle  ages,  and 
chivalry,  and  has  edited  a  book  full  of  old  ballads." 

"Oh,  all  the  eclectics  do  that  sort  of  thing; 
and  small  thanks  to  them.  However,  I  will  speak 
to  him  after  dinner,  and  see  what  there  is  in 
him." 

And  Lord  Vieuxbois  turned  away,  and,  alas 
for  Lancelot!  sat  next  to  Argemone  at  dinner. 
Lancelot,  who  was  cross  with  everybody  for  what 
was  nobody's  fault,  revenged  himself  all  dinner- 
time by  never  speaking  a  word  to  his  next  neigh- 
bor, Miss  Newbroom,  who  was  longing  with  all 
her  heart  to  talk  sentiment  to  him  about  the  Exhi- 
bition; and  when  Argemone,  in  the  midst  of  a 
brilliant  word-skirmish  with  Lord  Vieuxbois,  stole 
a  glance  at  him,  he  chose  to  fancy  that  they  were 
both  talking  of  him,  and  looked  more  cross  than 
ever. 

After  the  ladies  retired,  Lancelot,  in  his  sulky 
way,  made  up  his  mind  that  the  conversation  was 
going  to  be  ineffably  stupid ;  and  set  to  to  dream, 
sip  claret,  and  count  the  minutes  till  he  found 


Vogue  la  Gal  ere  103 

himself  in  the  drawing-room  with  Argemone.  But 
he  soon  discovered,  as  I  suppose  we  all  have,  that 
"  it  never  rains  but  it  pours,"  and  that  one  cannot 
fall  in  with  a  new  fact  or  a  new  acquaintance  but 
next  day  twenty  fresh  things  shall  spring  up  as  if 
by  magic,  throwing  unexpected  light  on  one's  new 
phenomenon.  Lancelot's  head  was  full  of  the 
condition-of-the-poor  question,  and  lo  !  everybody 
seemed  destined  to  talk  about  it. 

"  Well,  Lord  Vieuxbois,"  said  the  host,  casually, 
"  my  girls  are  raving  about  your  new  school. 
They  say  it  is  a  perfect  antiquarian  gem." 

"Yes,  tolerable,  I  believe.  But  Wales  has 
disappointed  me  a  little.  That  vile  modernist 
naturalism  is  creeping  back  even  into  our  painted 
glass.  I  could  have  wished  that  the  artist's  designs 
for  the  windows  had  been  a  little  more  Catholic." 

"How  then?"  asked  the  host,  with  a  puzzled 
face. 

"Oh,  he  means,"  said  Bracebridge,  "that  the 
figures'  wrists  and  ankles  were  not  sufficiently  dis- 
located, and  the  patron  saint  did  not  look  quite 
like  a  starved  rabbit  with  its  neck  wrung.  Some 
of  the  faces,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  were  positively  like 
good-looking  men  and  women." 

"  Oh,  I  understand,"  said  Lord  Minchampstead ; 
"  Bracebridge's  tongue  is  privileged,  you  know, 
Lord  Vieuxbois,  so  you  must  not  be  angry." 

"  I  don't  see  my  way  into  all  this,"  said  Squire 
Lavington  (  which  was  very  likely  to  be  true,  con- 
sidering that  he  never  looked  for  his  way).  "I 
don't  see  how  all  these  painted  windows,  and 
crosses,  and  chanting,  and  the  deuce  and  the  Pope 
only  know  what  else,  are  to  make  boys  any 
better." 


1 04  Yeast 

"We  have  it  on  the  highest  authority,"  said 
Vieuxbois,  "  that  pictures  and  music  are  the  books 
of  the  unlearned.  I  do  not  think  that  we  have  any 
right  in  the  nineteenth  century  to  contest  an 
opinion  which  the  fathers  of  the  Church  gave  in 
the  fourth." 

"  At  all  events,"  said  Lancelot,  "  it  is  by  pictures 
and  music,  by  art  and  song,  and  symbolic  repre- 
sentations, that  all  nations  have  been  educated  in 
their  adolescence !  and  as  the  youth  of  the  individ- 
ual is  exactly  analogous  to  the  youth  of  the  col- 
lective race,  we  should  employ  the  same  means  of 
instruction  with  our  children  which  succeeded  in 
the  early  ages  with  the  whole  world." 

Lancelot  might  as  well  have  held  his  tongue  — 
nobody  understood  him  but  Vieuxbois,  and  he 
had  been  taught  to  scent  German  neology  in 
everything,  as  some  folks  are  taught  to  scent 
Jesuitry,  especially  when  it  involved  an  inductive 
law,  and  not  a  mere  red-tape  precedent,  and, 
therefore,  could  not  see  that  Lancelot  was  arguing 
for  him. 

"All  very  fine,  Smith,"  said  the  Squire;  "  it's  a 
pity  you  won't  leave  off  puzzling  your  head  with 
books,  and  stick  to  fox-hunting.  All  you  young 
gentlemen  will  do  is  to  turn  the  heads  of  the  poor 
with  your  cursed  education."  The  national  oath 
followed,  of  course.  "Pictures  and  chanting! 
Why,  when  I  was  a  boy,  a  good  honest  laboring 
man  wanted  to  see  nothing  better  than  a  half-penny 
ballad,  with  a  wood-cut  at  the  top,  and  they  worked 
very  well  then,  and  wanted  for  nothing." 

"  Oh,  we  shall  give  them  the  half-penny  ballads 
in  time  !  "  said  Vieuxbois,  smiling. 

"You  will  do  a  very  good  deed,  then,"  said  mine 


Vogue  la  Galere  105 

host.  "But  I  am  sorry  to  say  that,  as  far  as  I  can 
find  from  my  agents,  when  the  upper  classes  write 
cheap  publications,  the  lower  classes  will  not  read 
them." 

"  Too  true,"  said  Vieuxbois. 

"Is  not  the  cause,"  asked  Lancelot,  "just  that 
the  upper  classes  do  write  them?  " 

"  The  writings  of  working  men,  certainly,"  said 
Lord  Minchampstead,  "have  an  enormous  sale 
among  their  own  class." 

"Just  because  they  express  the  feelings  of  that 
class,  of  which  I  am  beginning  to  fear  that  we 
know  very  little.  Look  again,  what  a  noble  liter- 
ature of  people's  songs  and  hymns  Germany  has. 
Some  of  Lord  Vieuxbois's  friends,  I  know,  are  busy 
translating  many  of  them." 

"  As  many  of  them,  that  is  to  say,"  said  Vieux- 
bois, "  as  are  compatible  with  a  real  Church  spirit." 

"Be  it  so;  but  who  wrote  them?  Not  the  Ger- 
man aristocracy  for  the  people,  but  the  German 
people  for  themselves.  There  is  the  secret  of  their 
power.  Why  not  educate  the  people  up  to  such 
a  standard  that  they  should  be  able  to  write  their 
own  literature  ?  " 

"What,"  said  Mr.  Chalklands,  of  Chalklands, 
who  sat  opposite,  "  would  you  have  working  men 
turn  ballad  writers?  There  would  be  an  end  of 
work,  then,  I  think." 

"I  have  not  heard,"  said  Lancelot,  "that  the 
young  women — ladies,  I  ought  to  say,  if  the  word 
mean  anything  —  who  wrote  the  '  Lowell  Offering^' 
spun  less  or  worse  cotton  than  their  neighbors." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  Lord  Minchampstead, 
"we   have   the    most   noble    accounts   of   heroic 
industry  and  self-sacrifice  in  girls  whose  education, 
F— Vol.  V 


1 06  Yeast 

to  judge  by  its  fruits,  might  shame  that  of  most 
English  young  ladies." 

Mr.  Chalklands  expressed  certain  confused 
notions  that,  in  America,  factory  girls  carried 
green  silk  parasols,  put  the  legs  of  pianos  into 
trousers,  and  were  too  prudish  to  make  a  shirt,  or 
to  call  it  a  shirt  after  it  was  made,  he  did  not  quite 
remember  which. 

"  It  is  a  great  pity,"  said  Lord  Minchampstead, 
"  that  our  factory  girls  are  not  in  the  same  state  of 
civilization.  But  it  is  socially  impossible.  America 
is  in  an  abnormal  state.  In  a  young  country  the 
laws  of  political  economy  do  not  make  themselves 
fully  felt.  Here,  where  we  have  no  uncleared  world 
to  drain  the  labor-market,  we  may  pity  and  allevi- 
ate the  condition  of  the  working-classes,  but  we  can 
do  nothing  more.  All  the  modern  schemes  for 
the  amelioration  which  ignore  the  laws  of  competi- 
tion must  end  either  in  pauperization  "  —  (with  a 
glance  at  Lord  Vieuxbois),  —  "  or  in  the  destruc- 
tion of  property." 

Lancelot  said  nothing,  but  thought  the  more.  It 
did  strike  him  at  the  moment  that  the  few  might, 
possibly,  be  made  for  the  many,  and  not  the  many 
for  the  few ;  and  that  property  was  made  for  man, 
not  man  for  property.  But  he  contented  himself 
with  asking : 

"  You  think,  then,  my  lord,  that  in  the  present 
state  of  society,  no  dead-lift  can  be  given  to  the 
condition —  in  plain  English,  the  wages  —  of  work- 
ing men,  without  the  destruction  of  property?" 

Lord  Minchampstead  smiled,  and  parried  the 
question.  ' 

"  There  may  be  other  dead-lift  ameliorations,  my 
young  friend,  besides  a  dead-lift  of  wages." 


Vogue  la  Galere  107 

So  Lancelot  thought,  also;  but  Lord  Min- 
champstead  would  have  been  a  little  startled  could 
he  have  seen  Lancelot's  notion  of  a  dead-lift. 
Lord  Minchampstead  was  thinking  of  cheap  bread 
and  sugar.  Do  you  think  that  I  will  tell  you  of 
what  Lancelot  was  thinking? 
i  But  here  Vieuxbois  spurred  in  to  break  a  last 
lance.  He  had  been  very  much  disgusted  with 
the  turn  the  conversation  was  taking,  for  he  con- 
sidered nothing  more  heterodox  than  the  notion 
that  the  poor  were  to  educate  themselves.  In  his 
scheme,  of  course  the  clergy  and  the  gentry  were 
to  educate  the  poor,  who  were  to  take  down  thank- 
fully as  much  as  it  was  thought  proper  to  give 
them :  and  all  beyond  was  "  self-will "  and  "  private 
judgment,"  the  fathers  of  Dissent  and  Chartism, 
Trades'-union  strikes,  and  French  Revolutions, 
et  si  qua  alia. 

"  And  pray,  Mr.  Smith,  may  I  ask  what  limit 
you  would  put  to  education  ?  " 

"  The  capacities  of  each  man,"  said  Lancelot 
"  If  man  living  in  civilized  society  has  one  right 
which  he  can  demand  it  is  this,  that  the  State 
which  exists  by  his  labor  shall  enable  him  to 
develop,  or,  at  least,  not  hinder  his  developing, 
his  whole  faculties  to  their  very  utmost,  however 
lofty  that  may  be.  While  a  man  who  might  be  an 
author  remains  a  spade-drudge,  or  a  journeyman 
while  he  has  capacities  for  a  master;  while  any 
man  able  to  rise  in  life  remains  by  social  circum- 
stances lower  than  he  is  willing  to  place  himself, 
that  man  has  a  right  to  complain  of  the  State's 
injustice  and  neglect." 

"  Really,  I  do  not  see,"  said  Vieuxbois,  "  why 
people  should  wish  to  rise  in  life.  They  had  no 


io8  Yeast 

such  self-willed  fancy  in  the  good  old  times.     The 
whole    notion    is    a    product    of   these    modern 

days " 

He  would  have  said  more,  but  he  luckily  remem- 
bered at  whose  table  he  was  sitting. 

"  I  think,  honestly,"  said  Lancelot,  whose  blood 
was  up,  "  that  we  gentlemen  all  run  into  the  same 
fallacy.  We  fancy  ourselves  the  fixed  and  neces- 
sary element  in  society,  to  which  all  others  are  to 
accommodate  themselves.  '  Given  the  rights  of  the 
few  rich,  to  find  the  condition  of  the  many  poor.' 
It  seems  to  me  that  other  postulate  is  quite  as 
fair :  '  Given  the  rights  of  the  many  poor,  to  find 
the  condition  of  the  few  rich.'  " 

Lord  Minchampstead  laughed. 

"  If  you  hit  us  so  hard,  Mr.  Smith,  I  must  really 
denounce  you  as  a  Communist.  Lord  Vieuxbois, 
shall  we  join  the  ladies?  " 

In  the  drawing-room,  poor  Lancelot,  after 
rejecting  overtures  of  fraternity  from  several 
young  ladies,  set  himself  steadily  again  against 
the  wall  to  sulk  and  watch  Argemone.  But  this 
time  she  spied  in  a  few  minutes  his  melancholy, 
moonstruck  face,  swam  up  to  him,  and  said  some- 
thing kind  and  commonplace.  She  spoke  in  the 
simplicity  of  her  heart,  but  he  chose  to  think  she 
was  patronizing  him  —  she  had  not  talked  com- 
monplaces to  the  vicar.  He  tried  to  say  some- 
thing smart  and  cutting,  — stuttered,  broke  down, 
blushed,  and  shrank  back  again  to  the  wall, 
fancying  that  every  eye  in  the  room  was  on  him ; 
and  for  one  moment  a  flash  of  sheer  hatred  to 
Argemone  swept  through  him. 

Was  Argemone  patronizing  him?  Of  course 
she  was.  True,  she  was  but  three-and -twenty, 


Vogue  la  Galere  109 

and  he  was  of  the  same  age ;  but,  spiritually  and 
socially,  the  girl  develops  ten  years  earlier  than 
the  boy.  She  was  flattered  and  worshipped  by 
gray-headed  men,  and  in  her  simplicity  she 
thought  it  a  noble  self-sacrifice  to  stoop  to  notice 
the  poor  awkward  youth.  And  yet  if  he  could 
have  seen  the  pure  moonlight  of  sisterly  pity 
which  filled  all  her  heart  as  she  retreated,  with 
something  of  a  blush  and  something  of  a  sigh, 
and  her  heart  fluttered  and  fell,  would  he  have 
been  content?  Not  he.  It  was  her  love  he 
wanted,  and  not  her  pity;  it  was  to  conquer  her 
and  possess  her,  and  inform  himself  with  her 
image,  and  her  with  his  own;  though  as  yet  he 
did  not  know  it;  though  the  moment  that  she 
turned  away  he  cursed  himself  for  selfish  vanity, 
and  moroseness  and  conceit. 

"  Who  am  I  to  demand  her  all  to  myself  ?  Her, 
the  glorious,  the  saintly,  the  unfallen !  Is  not  a 
look,  a  word,  infinitely  more  than  I  deserve? 
And  yet,  I  pretend  to  admire  tales  of  chivalry! 
Old  knightly  hearts  would  have  fought  and  wan- 
dered for  years  to  earn  a  tithe  of  the  favors  which 
have  been  bestowed  on  me  unasked. " 

Peace !  poor  Lancelot !  Thy  egg  is  by  no 
means  addle ;  but  the  chick  is  breaking  the  shell 
in  somewhat  a  cross-grained  fashion. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  DRIVE  HOME,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT 

NOW  it  was  not  extraordinary  that  Squire 
Lavington  had  "assimilated"  a  couple  of 
bottles  of  Carbonel's  best  port;  for  however 
abstemious  the  new  lord  himself  might  be,  he 
felt  for  the  habits,  and  for  the  vote  of  an  old- 
fashioned  Whig  squire.  Nor  was  it  extraordi- 
nary that  he  fell  fast  asleep  the  moment  he  got 
into  the  carriage;  nor,  again,  that  his  wife  and 
daughters  were  not  solicitous  about  waking  him ; 
nor,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  coachman  and 
footman,  who  were  like  all  the  squire's  servants, 
of  the  good  old  sort,  honest,  faithful,  boozing, 
extravagant,  happy-go-lucky  souls,  who  had  "  been 
about  the  place  these  forty  years,"  were  somewhat 
owlish  and  unsteady  on  the  box.  Nor  was  it 
extraordinary  that  there  was  a  heavy  storm  of 
lightning,  for  that  happened  three  times  a-week 
in  the  chalk  hills  the  summer  through ;  nor, 
again,  that  under  these  circumstances  the  horses, 
who  were  of  the  squire's  own  breeding,  and  never 
thoroughly  broke  (nothing  was  done  thoroughly 
at  Whitford),  went  rather  wildly  home,  and  that 
the  carriage  swung  alarmingly  down  the  steep 
hills,  and  the  boughs  brushed  the  windows  rather 
too  often.  But  it  was  extraordinary  that  Mrs. 


The  Drive  Home  in 

Lavington  had  cast  off  her  usual  primness,  and 
seemed  to-night,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  in 
an  exuberant  good  humor,  which  she  evinced  by 
snubbing  her  usual  favorite  Honoria,  and  lavish- 
ing caresses  on  Argemone,  whose  vagaries  she 
usually  regarded  with  a  sort  of  puzzled  terror, 
like  a  hen  who  has  hatched  a  duckling. 

"  Honoria,  take  your  feet  off  my  dress.  Arge- 
mone, my  child,  I  hope  you  spent  a  pleasant 
evening  ? " 

Argemone  answered  by  some  tossy  common- 
place. 

A  pause  —  and  then  Mrs.  Lavington  recom- 
menced : 

"How  very  pleasing  that  poor  young  Lord 
Vieuxbois  is,  after  all !  " 

"I  thought  you  disliked  him  so  much." 

"His  opinions,  my  child;  but  we  must  hope 
for  the  best.  He  seems  moral  and  well  in- 
clined, and  really  desirous  of  doing  good  in  his 
way;  and  so  successful  in  the  House,  too,  I 
hear." 

"To  me,"  said  Argemone,  "he  seems  to  want 
life,  originality,  depth,  everything  that  makes  a 
great  man.  He  knows  nothing  but  what  he  has 
picked  up  ready-made  from  books.  After  all, 
his  opinions  are  the  one  redeeming  point  in 
him." 

"Ah,  my  dear,  when  it  pleases  Heaven  to  open 
your  eyes,  you  will  see  as  I  do !  " 

Poor  Mrs.  Lavington !  Unconscious  spokes- 
woman for  the  ninety-nine  hundredths  of  the 
human  race !  What  are  we  all  doing  from  morn- 
ing to  night,  but  setting  up  our  own  fancies 
as  the  measure  of  all  heaven  and  earth,  and  say- 


112  Yeast 

ing,  each  in  his  own  dialect,  Whig,  Radical,  or 
Tory,  Papist  or  Protestant,  "When  it  pleases 
Heaven  to  open  your  eyes  you  will  see  as  I 
do"? 

"It  is  a  great  pity,"  went  oi\  Mrs.  Lavington, 
meditatively,  "  to  see  a  young  man  so  benighted 
and  thrown  away.  With  his  vast  fortune,  too  — 
such  a  means  of  good  !  Really  we  ought  to  have 
seen  a  little  more  of  him.  I  think  Mr.  O'  Blare- 
away  's  conversation  might  be  a  blessing  to 
him.  I  think  of  asking  him  over  to  stay  a 
week  at  Whitford,  to  meet  that  sainted  young 
man." 

Now  Argemone  did  not  think  the  Reverend 
Panurgus  O'Blareaway,  incumbent  of  Lower 
Whitford,  at  all  a  sainted  young  man,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  a  very  vulgar,  slippery  Irishman; 
and  she  had,  somehow,  tired  of  her  late  favor- 
ite, Lord  Vieuxbois;  so  she  answered  tossily 
enough : 

"Really,  mamma,  a  week  of  Lord  Vieuxbois 
will  be  too  much.  We  shall  be  bored  to  death 
with  the  Cambridge  Camden  Society,  and  ballads 
for  the  people." 

"I  think,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Lavington  (who 
had,  half  unconsciously  to  herself,  more  reasons 
than  one  for  bringing  the  young  lord  to  Whitford), 
"  I  think,  my  dear,  that  his  conversation,  with  all 
its  faults,  will  be  a  very  improving  change  for 
your  father.  I  hope  he's  asleep." 

The  squire's  nose  answered  for  itself. 

"  Really,  what  between  Mr.  Smith,  and  Colonel 
Bracebridge,  and  their  very  ineligible  friend, 
Mr.  Mellot,  whom  I  should  never  have  allowed 
to  enter  my  house  if  I  had  suspected  his  religious 


The  Drive  Home  113 

views,  the  place  has  become  a  hot-bed  of  false 
doctrine  and  heresy.  I  have  been  quite  fright- 
ened when  I  have  heard  their  conversation  at 
dinner,  lest  the  footmen  should  turn  infidels ! " 

"Perhaps,  mamma,"  said  Honoria,  slyly,  "Lord 
Vieuxbois  might  convert  them  to  something  quite 
as  bad.  How  shocking  if  old  Giles,  the  butler, 
should  turn  Papist ! " 

"  Honoria,  you  are  very  silly.  Lord  Vieuxbois, 
at  least,  can  be  trusted.  He  has  no  liking  for  low 
companions.  He  is  above  joking  with  grooms, 
and  taking  country  walks  with  gamekeepers." 

It  was  lucky  that  it  was  dark,  for  Honoria  and 
Argemone  both  blushed  crimson. 

"Your  poor  father's  mind  has  been  quite  un- 
settled by  all  their  ribaldry.  They  have  kept 
him  so  continually  amused,  that  all  my  efforts 
to  bring  him  to  a  sense  of  his  awful  state  have 
been  more  unavailing  than  ever." 

Poor  Mrs.  Lavington !  She  had  married,  at 
eighteen,  a  man  far  her  inferior  in  intellect ;  and 
had  become  —  as  often  happens  in  such  cases  —  a 
prude  and  a  devotee.  The  squire,  who  really 
admired  and  respected  her,  confined  his  disgust 
to  sly  curses  at  the  Methodists  (under  which 
name  he  used  to  include  every  species  of  religious 
earnestness,  from  Quakerism  to  that  of  Mr. 
Newman).  Mrs.  Lavington  used  at  first  to  dig- 
nify these  disagreeables  by  the  name  of  persecu- 
tion, and  now  she  was  trying  to  convert  the  old 
man  by  coldness,  severity,  and  long  curtain- 
lectures,  utterly  unintelligible  to  their  victim, 
because  couched  in  the  peculiar  conventional 
phraseology  of  a  certain  school.  She  forgot, 
poor  earnest  soul,  that  the  same  form  of  religion 


ii4  Yeast 

which  had  captivated  a  disappointed  girl  of 
twenty,  might  not  be  the  most  attractive  one  for 
a  jovial  old  man  of  sixty. 

Argemone,  who  a  fortnight  before  would  have 
chimed  in  with  all  her  mother's  lamentations, 
now  felt  a  little  nettled  and  jealous.  She  could 
not  bear  to  hear  Lancelot  classed  with  the 
colonel. 

"Indeed,"  she  said,  "if  amusement  is  bad  for 
my  father,  he  is  not  likely  to  get  much  of  it  dur- 
ing Lord  Vieuxbois's  stay.  But,  of  course, 
mamma,  you  will  do  as  you  please." 

"Of  course  I  shall,  my  dear,"  answered  the 
good  lady,  in  a  tragedy-queen  tone.  "I  shall 
only  take  the  liberty  of  adding,  that  it  is  very 
painful  to  me  to  find  you  adding  to  the  anxiety 
which  your  unfortunate  opinions  give  me,  by 
throwing  every  possible  obstacle  in  the  way  of 
my  plans  for  your  good." 

Argemone  burst  into  proud  tears  (she  often  did 
so  after  a  conversation  with  her  mother).  "  Plans 
for  my  good  I  "  —  And  an  unworthy  suspicion 
about  her  mother  crossed  her  mind,  and  was 
peremptorily  expelled  again.  What  turn  the 
conversation  would  have  taken  next,  I  know  not, 
but  at  that  moment  Honoria  and  her  mother 
uttered  a  fearful  shriek,  as  their  side  of  the  car- 
riage  jolted  half-way  up  the  bank,  and  stuck  still 
in  that  pleasant  position. 

The  squire  awoke,  and  the  ladies  simultaneously 
clapped  their  hands  to  their  ears,  knowing  what 
was  coming.  He  thrust  his  head  out  of  the 
window,  and  discharged  a  broadside  of  at  least 
ten  pounds'  worth  of  oaths  (Bow  Street  valua- 
tion) at  the  servants,  who  were  examining  the 


The  Drive  Home  115 

broken  wheel,  with  a  side  volley  or  two  at  Mrs. 
Lavington  for  being  frightened.  He  often  treated 
her  and  Honoria  to  that  style  of  oratory.  At 
Argemone  he  had  never  sworn  but  once  since  she 
left  the  nursery,  and  was  so  frightened  at  the 
consequences,  that  he  took  care  never  to  do  it 
again. 

But  there  they  were  fast,  with  a  broken  wheel, 
plunging  horses,  and  a  drunken  coachman.  Luckily 
for  them,  the  colonel  and  Lancelot  were  follow- 
ing close  behind,  and  came  to  their  assistance. 

The  colonel,  as  usual,  solved  the  problem. 

"Your  dog-cart  will  carry  four,  Smith?" 

"It  will." 

"  Then  let  the  ladies  get  in,  and  Mr.  Lavington 
drive  them  home. " 

"What?"  said  the  squire,  "with  both  my 
hands  red-hot  with  the  gout?  You  must  drive 
three  of  us,  colonel,  and  one  of  us  must  walk." 

"I  will  walk,"  said  Argemone,  in  her  deter- 
mined way. 

Mrs.  Lavington  began  something  about  pro- 
priety, but  was  stopped  with  another  pound's 
worth  of  oaths  by  the  squire,  who,  however,  had 
tolerably  recovered  his  good  humor,  and  hurried 
Mrs.  Lavington  and  Honoria,  laughingly,  into 
the  dog-cart,  saying: 

"  Argemone 's  safe  enough  with  Smith;  the 
servants  will  lead  the  horses  behind  them.  It 's 
only  three  miles  home,  and  I  should  like  to  see 
any  one  speak  to  her  twice  while  Smith's  fists 
are  in  the  way." 

Lancelot  thought  so  too. 

"You  can  trust  yourself  to  me,  Miss  Lav- 
ington  ? "  - 


1 1 6  Yeast 

"By   all    means.      I    shall     enjoy    the   walk 

after "  and  she  stopped.     In  a  moment  the 

dog-cart  had  rattled  off,  with  a  parting  curse  from 
the  squire  to  the  servants,  who  were  unharnessing 
the  horses. 

Argemone  took  Lancelot's  arm;  the  soft  touch 
thrilled  through  and  through  him ;  and  Argemone 
felt,  she  knew  not  why,  a  new  sensation  run 
through  her  frame.  She  shuddered  —  not  with 
pain. 

"You  are  cold,  Miss  Lavington?  " 

"Oh,  not  in  the  least."  Cold!  when  every 
vein  was  boiling  so  strangely !  A  soft  luscious 
melancholy  crept  over  her.  She  had  always  had 
a  terror  of  darkness ;  but  now  she  felt  quite  safe 
in  his  strength.  The  thought  of  her  own  unpro- 
tected girlhood  drew  her  heart  closer  to  him. 
She  remembered  with  pleasure  the  stories  of  his 
personal  prowess,  which  had  once  made  her  think 
him  coarse  and  brutal.  For  the  first  time  in  her 
life  she  knew  the  delight  of  dependence  —  the 
holy  charm  of  weakness.  And  as  they  paced  on 
silently  together,  through  the  black  awful  night, 
while  the  servants  lingered,  far  out  of  sight, 
about  the  horses,  she  found  out  how  utterly  she 
trusted  to  him. 

"  Listen ! "  she  said.  A  nightingale  was  close 
to  them,  pouring  out  his  whole  soul  in  song. 

"  Is  it  not  very  late  in  the  year  for  a  nightin- 
gale?" 

"He  is  waiting  for  his  mate.  She  is  rearing 
a  late  brood,  I  suppose." 

"  What  do  you  think  it  is  which  can  stir  him 
up  to  such  an  ecstasy  of  joy,  and  transfigure  his 
whole  heart  into  melody  ? " 


The  Drive  Home  117 

"What  but  love,  the  fulness  of  all  joy,  the 
evoker  of  all  song  ? " 

"All  song?  —  The  angels  sing  in  heaven." 

"  So  they  say :  but  the  angels  must  love  if  they 
sing." 

"They  love  God!" 

"  And  no  one  else  ? " 

"  Oh  yes :  but  that  is  universal,  spiritual  love ; 
not  earthly  love  —  a  narrow  passion  for  an 
individual. " 

"How  do  we  know  that  they  do  not  learn  to 
love  all  by  first  loving  one  ? " 

"  Oh,  the  angelic  life  is  single !  " 

"Who  told  you  so,  Miss  Lavington?" 

She  quoted  the  stock  text,  of  course :  " '  In 
heaven  they  neither  marry  nor  are  given  in  mar- 
riage, but  are  as  the  angels. ' ' 

" '  As  the  tree  falls,  so  it  lies. '  And  God  for- 
bid that  those  who  have  been  true  lovers  on  earth 
should  contract  new  marriages  in  the  next  world. 
Love  is  eternal.  Death  may  part  lovers,  but  not 
love.  And  how  do  we  know  that  these  angels, 
as  they  call  them,  if  they  be  really  persons,  may 
not  be  united  in  pairs  by  some  marriage  bond, 
infinitely  more  perfect  than  any  we  can  dream  of 
on  earth  ? " 

"That  is  a  very  wild  view,  Mr.  Smith,  and 
not  sanctioned  by  the  Church,"  said  Argemone, 
severely.  (Curious  and  significant  it  is,  how 
severe  ladies  are  apt  to  be  whenever  they  talk  of 
the  Church.) 

"In  plain  historic  fact,  the  early  fathers  and 
the  middle-age  monks  did  not  sanction  it:  and 
are  not  they  the  very  last  persons  to  whom  one 
would  go  to  be  taught  about  marriage?  Strange  1 


1 1 8  Yeast 

that  people  should  take  their  notions  of  love  from 
the  very  men  who  prided  themselves  on  being 
bound,  by  their  own  vows,  to  know  nothing  about 
it!" 

"  They  were  very  holy  men. " 

"  But  still  men,  as  I  take  it.  And  do  you  not 
see  that  Love  is,  like  all  spiritual  things,  only  to 
be  understood  by  experience  —  by  loving  ?  " 

"  But  is  love  spiritual  ?  " 

"  Pardon  me,  but  what  a  question  for  one  who 
believes  that  *  God  is  love  ' ! " 

"  But  the  divines  tell  us  that  the  love  of  human 
beings  is  earthly." 

"  How  did  they  know  ?  They  had  never  tried. 
Oh,  Miss  Lavington !  cannot  you  see  that  in 
those  barbarous  and  profligate  ages  of  the  later 
empire,  it  was  impossible  for  men  to  discern  the 
spiritual  beauty  of  marriage,  degraded  as  it  had 
been  by  heathen  brutality?  Do  you  not  see  that 
there  must  have  been  a  continual  tendency  in  the 
minds  of  a  celibate  clergy  to  look  with  contempt, 
almost  with  spite,  on  pleasures  which  were  for- 
bidden to  them?" 

Another  pause. 

"It  must  be  very  delicious,"  said  Argemone, 
thoughtfully,  "for  any  one  who  believes  it,  to 
think  that  marriage  can  last  through  eternity. 
But,  then,  what  becomes  of  entire  love  to  God? 
How  can  we  part  our  hearts  between  him  and  his 
creatures  ? " 

"It  is  a  sin,  then,  to  love  your  sister?  or  your 
friend?  What  a  low,  material  view  of  love,  to 
fancy  that  you  can  cut  it  up  into  so  many  pieces, 
like  a  cake,  and  give  to  one  person  one  tit-bit, 
and  another  to  another,  as  the  Popish  books  would 


The  Drive  Home  119 

have  you  believe!  Love  is  like  flame  —  light  as 
many  fresh  flames  at  it  as  you  will,  it  grows, 
instead  of  diminishing,  by  the  dispersion." 

"It  is  a  beautiful  imagination." 

"But,  oh,  how  miserable  and  tantalizing  a 
thought,  Miss  Lavington,  to  those  who  know 
that  a  priceless  spirit  is  near  them,  which  might 
be  one  with  theirs  through  all  eternity,  like  twin 
stars  in  one  common  atmosphere,  forever  giving 
and  receiving  wisdom  and  might,  beauty  and 
bliss,  and  yet  are  barred  from  their  bliss  by  some 
invisible  adamantine  wall,  against  which  they 
must  beat  themselves  to  death,  like  butterflies 
against  the  window-pane,  gazing,  and  longing, 
and  unable  to  guess  why  they  are  forbidden  to 
enjoy ! " 

Why  did  Argemone  withdraw  her  arm  from 
his  ?  He  knew,  and  he  felt  that  she  was  entrusted 
to  him.  He  turned  away  from  the  subject. 

"  I  wonder  whether  they  are  safe  home  by  this 
time?" 

"  I  hope  my  father  will  not  catch  cold.  How 
sad,  Mr.  Smith,  that  he  will  swear  so.  I  do  not 
like  to  say  it;  and  yet  you  must  have  heard  him 
too  often  yourself. " 

"  It  is  hardly  a  sin  with  him  now,  I  think.  He 
has  become  so  habituated  to  it,  that  he  attaches 
no  meaning  or  notion  whatsoever  to  his  own 
oaths.  I  have  heard  him  do  it  with  a  smiling 
face  to  the  very  beggar  to  whom  he  was  giving 
half-a-crown.  We  must  not  judge  a  man  of  his 
school  by  the  standard  of  our  own  day." 

"Let  us  hope  so,"  said  Argemone,  sadly. 

There  was  another  pause.  At  a  turn  of  the 
hill  road  the  black  masses  of  beech-wood  opened, 


120  Yeast 

and  showed  the  Priory  lights  twinkling  right 
below.  Strange  that  Argemone  felt  sorry  to  find 
herself  so  near  home. 

"We  shall  go  to  town  next  week,"  said  she; 

"and  then You  are  going  to  Norway  this 

summer,   are  you  not  ? " 

"No.  I  have  learnt  that  my  duty  lies  nearer 
home." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

"I  wish  this  summer,  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life,  to  try  and  do  some  good  —  to  examine  a  little 
into  the  real  condition  of  English  working  men." 

"I  am  afraid,  Mr.  Smith,  that  I  did  not  teach 
you  that  duty." 

"Oh,  you  have  taught  me  priceless  things! 
You  have  taught  me  beauty  is  the  sacrament  of 
heaven,  and  love  its  gate;  that  that  which  is  the 
most  luscious  is  also  the  most  pure." 

"But  I  never  spoke  a  word  to  you  on  such 
subjects." 

"There  are  those,  Miss  Lavington,  to  whom  a 
human  face  can  speak  truths  too  deep  for  books. " 

Argemone  was  silent;  but  she  understood  him. 
Why  did  she  not  withdraw  her  arm  a  second  time? 

In  a  moment  more  the  colonel  hailed  them 
from  the  dog-cart  and  behind  him  came  the 
britschka  with  a  relay  of  servants. 

They  parted  with  a  long,  lingering  pressure  of 
the  hand,  which  haunted  her  young  palm  all 
night  in  dreams.  Argemone  got  into  the  car- 
riage, Lancelot  jumped  into  the  dog-cart,  took 
the  reins,  and  relieved  his  heart  by  galloping 
Sandy  up  the  hill,  and  frightening  the  returning 
coachman  down  one  bank  and  his  led  horses  up 
the  other. 


The  Drive  Home  121 

"  Vogue  la  Galtre,  Lancelot  ?  I  hope  you  have 
made  good  use  of  your  time  ?  " 

But  Lancelot  spoke  no  word  all  the  way  home, 
and  wandered  till  dawn  in  the  woods  around  his 
cottage,  kissing  the  hand  which  Argemone's 
palm  had  pressed. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WHITHER  ? 

SOME  three  months  slipped  away  —  right 
dreary  months  for  Lancelot,  for  the  Lav- 
ingtons  went  to  Baden-Baden  for  the  summer. 
"The  waters  were  necessary  for  their  health." 
.  .  .  How  wonderful  it  is,  by  the  by,  that  those 
German  Brunnen  are  never  necessary  for  poor 
people's  health!  .  .  .  and  they  did  not  return 
till  the  end  of  August.  So  Lancelot  buried  him- 
self up  to  the  eyes  in  the  Condition-of-the-Poor 
question  —  that  is,  in  blue  books,  red  books,  sani- 
tary reports,  mine  reports,  factory  reports;  and 
came  to  the  conclusion,  which  is  now  pretty 
generally  entertained,  that  something  was  the 
matter  —  but  what,  no  man  knew,  or,  if  they 
knew,  thought  proper  to  declare.  Hopeless  and 
bewildered,  he  left  the  books,  and  wandered  day 
after  day  from  farm  to  hamlet,  and  from  field  to 
tramper's  tent,  in  hopes  of  finding  out  the  secret 
for  himself.  What  he  saw,  of  course  I  must  not 
say;  for  if  I  did  the  reviewers  would  declare,  as 
usual,  one  and  all,  that  I  copied  out  of  the  Morn- 
ing Chronicle;  and  the  fact  that  these  pages, 
ninety-nine  hundredths  of  them  at  least,  were 
written  two  years  before  the  Morning  Chronicle 
began  its  invaluable  investigations,  would  be 
contemptuously  put  aside  as  at  once  impossible 


Whither  ?  123 

and  arrogant.  I  shall  therefore  only  say,  that  he 
saw  what  every  one  else  has  seen,  at  least  heard 
of,  and  got  tired  of  hearing  —  though,  alas !  they 
have  not  got  tired  of  seeing  it;  and  so  proceed 
with  my  story,  only  mentioning  therein  certain 
particulars  which  folks  seem,  to  me,  somewhat 
strangely,  to  have  generally  overlooked. 

But  whatever  Lancelot  saw,  or  thought  he  saw, 
I  cannot  say  that  it  brought  him  any  nearer  to  a 
solution  of  the  question;  and  he  at  last  ended  by 
a  sulky  acquiescence  in  Sam  Weller's  memorable 
dictum:  "Who  it  is  I  can't  say;  but  all  I  can 
say  is  that  somebody  ought  to  be  wopped  for 
this ! " 

But  one  day,  turning  over,  as  hopelessly  as  he 
was  beginning  to  turn  over  everything  else,  a 
new  work  of  Mr.  Carlyle's,  he  fell  on  some  such 
words  as  these :  — 

"The  beginning  and  the  end  of  what  is  the 
matter  with  us  in  these  days  is  —  that  we  /iave 
forgotten  God" 

Forgotten  God  ?  That  was  at  least  a  defect  of 
which  blue  books  had  taken  no  note.  And  it 
was  one  which,  on  the  whole  —  granting,  for  the 
sake  of  argument,  any  real,  living,  or  practical 
existence  to  That  Being,  might  be  a  radical  one 
—  it  brought  him  many  hours  of  thought,  that 
saying ;  and  when  they  were  over,  he  rose  up  and 
went  to  find  —  Tregarva. 

"Yes,  he  is  the  man.  He  is  the  only  man 
with  whom  I  have  ever  met,  of  whom  I  could  be 
sure  that,  independent  of  his  own  interest,  with- 
out the  allurements  of  respectability  and  decency, 
of  habit  and  custom,  he  believes  in  God.  And 
he  too  is  a  poor  man ;  he  has  known  the  struggles, 


1 24  Yeast 

temptations,  sorrows  of  the  poor.     I  will  go  to 
him." 

But  as  Lancelot  rose  to  find  him,  there  was 
put  into  his  hand  a  letter,  which  kept  him  at 
home  awhile  longer  —  none  other,  in  fact,  than 
the  long-expected  answer  from  Luke. 

"  Well  my  dear  Cousin,  you  may  possibly  have  some 
logical  ground  from  which  to  deny  Popery,  if  you 
deny  all  other  religions  with  it ;  but  how  those  who  hold 
any  received  form  of  Christianity  whatsoever  can  fairly 
side  with  you  against  Rome,  I  cannot  see.  I  am  sure  I 
have  been  sent  to  Rome  by  them,  not  drawn  thither  by 
Jesuits.  Not  merely  by  their  defects  and  inconsistencies ; 
not  merely  because  they  go  on  taunting  us,  and  shrieking 
at  us  with  the  cry  that  we  ought  to  go  to  Rome,  till  we 
at  last,  wearied  out,  take  them  at  their  word,  and  do  at 
their  bidding  the  thing  we  used  to  shrink  from  with  terror 
—  not  this  merely,  but  the  very  doctrines  we  hold  in  com- 
mon with  them,  have  sent  me  to  Rome.  For  would 
these  men  have  known  of  them  if  Rome  had  not  been? 
The  Trinity  —  the  Atonement  —  the  Inspiration  of 
Scripture — a  future  state  —  that  point  on  which  the 
present  generation,  without  a  smattering  of  psychologi- 
cal science,  without  even  the  old  belief  in  apparitions, 
dogmatizes  so  narrowly  and  arrogantly  —  what  would 
they  have  known  of  them  but  for  Rome  ?  And  she  says 
there  are  three  realms  in  the  future  state  .  .  .  heaven, 
hell,  and  purgatory  .  .  .  What  right  have  they  to  throw 
away  the  latter,  and  arbitrarily  retain  the  two  former? 
I  am  told  that  Scripture  gives  no  warrant  for  a  third 
state.  She  says  that  it  does  —  that  it  teaches  that  im- 
plicitly, as  it  teaches  other,  the  very  highest  doctrines ; 
some  hold,  the  Trinity  itself.  ...  It  may  be  proved 
from  Scripture ;  for  it  may  be  proved  from  the  love  and 
justice  of  God  revealed  in  Scripture.  The  Protestants 


Whither  ?  125 

divide  —  in  theory,  that  is  —  mankind  into  two  classes, 
the  righteous,  who  are  destined  to  infinite  bliss;  the 
wicked,  who  are  doomed  to  infinite  torment;  in  which 
latter  class,  to  make  their  arbitrary  division  exhaustive, 
they  put  of  course  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  out  of 
the  thousand,  and  doom  to  everlasting  companionship 
with  Borgias  and  Cagliostros,  the  gentle,  frivolous  girl, 
or  the  peevish  boy,  who  would  have  shrunk,  in  life,  with 
horror  from  the  contact.  .  .  .  Well,  at  least,  their  hell  is 
hellish  enough  ...  if  it  were  but  just.  .  .  .  But  I, 
Lancelot,  I  cannot  believe  it !  I  will  not  believe  it ! 
I  had  a  brother  once  —  affectionate,  simple,  generous, 
full  of  noble  aspirations  —  but  without,  alas  !  a  thought 
of  God ;  yielding  in  a  hundred  little  points,  and  some 
great  ones,  to  the  infernal  temptations  of  a  public  school. 
.  .  .  He  died  at  seventeen.  Where  is  he  now?  Lance- 
lot !  where  is  he  now?  Never  for  a  day  has  that  thought 
left  my  mind  for  years.  Not  hi  heaven  —  for  he  has  no 
right  there ;  Protestants  would  say  that  as  well  as  I.  ... 
Where,  then  ?  —  Lancelot !  not  in  that  other  place.  I 
cannot,  I  will  not  believe  it.  For  the  sake  of  God's 
honor,  as  well  as  of  my  own  sanity,  I  will  not  believe  it ! 
There  must  be  some  third  place  —  some  intermediate 
chance,  some  door  of  hope  —  some  purifying  and  re- 
deeming process  beyond  the  grave.  .  .  .  Why  not  a 
purifying  fire?  Ages  of  that  are  surely  punishment 
enough  —  and  if  there  be  a  fire  of  hell,  why  not  a  fire  of 
purgatory  ?  .  .  .  After  all,  the  idea  of  purgatory  as  a  fire 
is  only  an  opinion,  not  a  dogma  of  the  Church.  .  .  . 
But  if  the  gross  flesh  which  has  sinned  is  to  be  punished 
by  the  matter  which  it  has  abused,  why  may  it  not  be 
purified  by  it? 

"You  may  laugh,  if  you  will,  at  both,  and  say  again, 
as  I  have  heard  you  say  ere  now,  that  the  popular  Chris- 
tian paradise  and  hell  are  but  a  Pagan  Olympus  and 
Tartarus,  as  grossly  material  as  Mahomet's,  without  the 


126  Yeast 

honest  thorough-going  sexuality,  which  you  thought  made 
his  notion  logical  and  consistent.  .  .  .  Well,  you  may 
say  that,  but  Protestants  cannot ;  for  their  idea  of  heaven 
and  ours  is  the  same  —  with  this  exception,  that  theirs 
will  contain  but  a  thin  band  of  saved  ones,  while  ours 
will  fill  and  grow  to  all  eternity.  ...  I  tell  you,  Lance- 
lot, it  is  just  the  very  doctrines  for  which  England  most 
curses  Rome,  and  this  very  purgatory  at  the  head  of 
them,  which  constitute  her  strength  and  her  allurement ; 
which  appeal  to  the  reason,  the  conscience,  the  heart  of 
men,  like  me,  who  have  revolted  from  the  novel  supersti- 
tion which  looks  pitilessly  on  at  the  fond  memories  of 
the  brother,  the  prayers  of  the  orphan,  the  doubled 
desolation  of  the  widow,  with  its  cold  terrible  assurance, 
'There  is  no  hope  for  thy  loved  and  lost  ones — no 
hope,  but  hell  for  evermore  ! ' 

"  I  do  not  expect  to  convert  you.  You  have  your 
metempsychosis,  and  your  theories  of  progressive  in- 
carnation, and  your  monads,  and  your  spirits  of  the  stars 
and  flowers.  I  have  not  forgotten  a  certain  talk  of  ours 
over  Falk  Von  Muller's  '  Recollections  of  Goethe,'  and 
how  you  materialists  are  often  the  most  fantastic  of 
theorists.  ...  I  do  not  expect,  I  say,  to  convert  you. 
I  only  want  to  show  you  there  is  no  use  trying  to  show 
the  self-satisfied  Pharisees  of  the  popular  sect  —  why,  in 
spite  of  all  their  curses,  men  still  go  back  to  Rome." 

Lancelot  read  this,  and  re-read  it;  and  smiled, 
but  sadly  —  and  the  more  he  read,  the  stronger 
its  arguments  seemed  to  him,  and  he  rejoiced 
thereat.  For  there  is  a  bad  pleasure  —  happy  he 
who  has  not  felt  it  —  in  a  pitiless  reductio  ad 
absurdum,  which  asks  tauntingly,  "Why  do  you 
not  follow  out  your  own  conclusions  ? "  —  instead 
of  thanking  God  that  people  do  not  follow  them 
out,  and  that  their  hearts  are  sounder  than  their 


Whither  ?  127 

heads.  Was  it  with  this  feeling  that  the  fancy 
took  possession  of  him,  to  show  the  letter  to 
Tregarva?  I  hope  not  —  perhaps  he  did  not  alto- 
gether wish  to  lead  him  into  temptation,  any 
more  than  I  wish  to  lead  my  readers,  but  only  to 
make  him,  just  as  I  wish  to  make  them,  face 
manfully  a  real  awful  question  now  racking  the 
hearts  of  hundreds,  and  see  how  they  will  be  able 
to  answer  the  sophist  fiend  —  for  honestly,  such 
he  is  —  when  their  time  comes,  as  come  it  will. 
At  least  he  wanted  to  test  at  once  Tregarva' s 
knowledge  and  his  logic.  As  for  his  "faith," 
alas !  he  had  not  so  much  reverence  for  it  as  to 
care  what  effect  Luke's  arguments  might  have 
there.  "The  whole  man,"  quoth  Lancelot  to 
himself,  "  is  a  novel  phenomenon ;  and  all  phe- 
nomena, however  magnificent,  are  surely  fair  sub- 
jects for  experiment.  Magendie  may  have  gone 
too  far,  certainly,  in  dissecting  a  live  dog  —  but 
what  harm  in  my  pulling  the  mane  of  a  dead 
lion?" 

So  he  showed  the  letter  to  Tregarva  as  they 
were  fishing  together  one  day  —  for  Lancelot  had 
been  installed  duly  in  the  Whitford  trout  pre- 
serves —  Tregarva  read  it  slowly ;  asked,  shrewdly 
enough,  the  meaning  of  a  word  or  two  as  he  went 
on;  at  last  folded  it  up  deliberately,  and  returned 
it  to  its  owner  with  a  deep  sigh.  Lancelot  said 
nothing  for  a  few  minutes ;  but  the  giant  seemed 
so  little  inclined  to  open  the  conversation,  that 
he  was  forced  at  last  to  ask  him  what  he  thought 
of  it. 

"It  isn't  a  matter  for  thinking,  sir,  to  my 
mind  —  There  's  a  nice  fish  on  the  feed  there,  just 
over-right  that  alder. " 


128  Yeast 

"  Hang  the  fish !  Why  not  a  matter  for  think- 
ing?" 

"To  my  mind,  sir,  a  man  may  think  a  deal  too 
much  about  many  matters  that  come  in  his 
way. " 

"  What  should  he  do  with  them,  then  ? " 

"Mind  his  own  business." 

"Pleasant  for  those  whom  they  concern!  — 
That 's  rather  a  cold-blooded  speech  for  you, 
Tregarva ! " 

The  Cornishman  looked  up  at  him  earnestly. 
His  eyes  were  glittering  —  was  it  with  tears? 

"Don't  fancy  I  don't  feel  for  the  poor  young 
gentleman  —  God  help  him !  —  I  *ve  been  through 
it  all  —  or  not  through  it,  that 's  to  say.  I  had  a 
brother  once,  as  fine  a  young  fellow  as  ever 
handled  pick,  as  kind-hearted  as  a  woman,  and  as 
honest  as  the  sun  in  heaven.  —  But  he  would 
drink,  sir;  —  that  one  temptation,  he  never  could 
stand  it.  And  one  day  at  the  shaft's  mouth, 
reaching  after  the  kibble-chain  —  maybe  he  was 
in  liquor,  maybe  not  —  the  Lord  knows;  but 

"I  didn't  know  him  again,  sir,  when  we  picked 

him  up,  any  more  than "  and  the  strong  man 

shuddered  from  head  to  foot,  and  beat  impatiently 
on  the  ground  with  his  heavy  heel,  as  if  to  crush 
down  the  rising  horror. 

"Where  is  he,  sir?" 

A  long  pause. 

"Do  you  think  I  didn't  ask  that,  sir,  for  years 
and  years  after,  of  God,  and  my  own  soul,  and 
heaven  and  earth,  and  the  things  under  the  earth, 
too?  For  many  a  night  did  I  go  down  that  mine 
out  of  my  turn,  and  sat  for  hours  in  thac  level, 
watching  and  watching,  if  perhaps  the  spirit  of 


Whither  ?  1 29 

him  might  haunt  about,  and  tell  his  poor  brother 
one  word  of  news  —  one  way  or  the  other —  any- 
thing would  have  been  a  comfort  —  but  the  doubt 
I  couldn't  bear.  And  yet  at  last  I  learnt  to  bear 
it  —  and  what 's  more,  I  learnt  not  to  care  for  it. 
It 's  a  bold  word  —  there  's  one  who  knows  whether 
or  not  it  is  a  true  one." 

"  Good  heavens !  —  and  what  then  did  you  say 
to  yourself?" 

"  I  said  this,  sir  —  or  rather,  one  came  as  I 
was  on  my  knees,  and  said  it  to  me  —  What 's 
done  you  can't  mend.  What's  left,  you  can. 
Whatever  has  happened  is  God's  concern  now, 
and  none  but  His.  Do  you  see  that  as  far  as  you 
can  no  such  thing  ever  happen  again,  on  the  face 
of  His  earth.  And  from  that  day,  sir,  I  gave 
myself  up  to  that  one  thing,  and  will  until  I  die, 
to  save  the  poor  young  fellows  like  myself,  who 
are  left  nowadays  to  the  devil,  body  and  soul, 
just  when  they  are  in  the  prime  of  their  power  to 
work  for  God." 

"Ah!"  said  Lancelot  —  "if  poor  Luke's  spirit 
were  but  as  strong  as  yours ! " 

"I  strong?"  answered  he,  with  a  sad  smile; 
"  and  so  you  think,  sir.  But  it 's  written,  and  it 's 
true  — '  The  heart  knoweth  its  own  bitterness. ' " 

"Then  you  absolutely  refuse  to  try  to  fancy 
your  —  his  present  state  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,  because  if  I  did  fancy  it,  that  would 
be  a  certain  sign  I  did  n't  know  it.  If  we  can't 
conceive  what  God  has  prepared  for  those  that 
we  know  loved  Him,  how  much  less  can  we  for 
them  of  whom  we  don't  know  whether  they  loved 
Him  or  not? " 

"Well,"  thought  Lancelot  to  himself,  "I  did 
G— Vol.  V 


130  Yeast 

not  do  so  very  wrong  in  trusting  your  intellect  to 
cut  through  a  sophism. " 

"  But  what  do  you  believe,  Tregarva  ? " 

"I  believe  this,  sir  —  and  your  cousin  will 
believe  the  same,  if  he  will  only  give  up,  as  I  am 
sore  afraid  he  will  need  to  some  day,  sticking  to 
arguments  and  doctrines  about  the  Lord,  and 
love  and  trust  the  Lord  himself.  I  believe,  sir, 
that  the  judge  of  all  the  earth  will  do  right  —  and 
what 's  right  can't  be  wrong,  nor  cruel  either, 
else  it  would  not  be  like  Him  who  loved  us  to 
the  death,  that's  all  I  know;  and  that's  enough 
for  me.  To  whom  little  is  given,  of  him  is  little 
required.  He  that  didn't  know  his  Master's 
will,  will  be  beaten  with  few  stripes,  and  he  that 
did  know  it,  as  I  do,  will  be  beaten  with  many, 
if  he  neglects  it  —  and  that  latter,  not  the  former, 
is  my  concern." 

"Well,"  thought  Lancelot  to  himself,  "this 
great  heart  has  gone  down  to  the  root  of  the 
matter  —  the  right  and  wrong  of  it.  He,  at  least, 
has  not  forgotten  God.  Well,  I  would  give  up 
all  the  teleologies  and  cosmogonies  that  I  ever 
dreamt  or  read,  just  to  believe  what  he  believes 
—  Heigho  and  well-a-day!  —  Paul!  hist?  I'll 
swear  that  was  an  otter!" 

"I  hope  not,  sir,  I'm  sure.  I  haven't  seen 
the  spraint  of  one  here  this  two  years." 

"There  again  —  don't  you  see  something  move 
under  that  marl  bank  ? " 

Tregarva  watched  a  moment,  and  then  ran  up 
to  the  spot,  and  throwing  himself  on  his  face  on 
the  edge,  leant  over,  grappled  something  —  and 
was  instantly,  to  Lancelot's  astonishment,  grap- 
pled in  his  turn  by  a  rough,  lank,  white  dog, 


Whither  ?  131 

whose  teeth,  however,  could  not  get  through  the 
velveteen  sleeve. 

"I'll  give  in,  keeper!  I'll  give  in.  Doan't 
ye  harm  the  dog!  he's  deaf  as  a  post,  you 
knows. " 

"I  won't  harm  him  if  you  take  him  off,  and 
come  up  quietly." 

This  mysterious  conversation  was  carried  on 
with  a  human  head,  which  peeped  above  the 
water,  its  arms  supporting  from  beneath  the 
growling  cur  —  such  a  visage  as  only  worn-out 
poachers,  or  trampling  drovers,  or  London  chif- 
fonniers  carry;  pear-shaped  and  retreating  to  a 
narrow  peak  above,  while  below,  the  bleared 
cheeks,  and  drooping  lips,  and  peering  purblind 
eyes,  perplexed,  hopeless,  defiant,  and  yet  sneak- 
ing, bespeak  their  share  in  the  "inheritance  of 
the  kingdom  of  heaven."  —  Savages  without  the 
resources  of  a  savage  —  slaves  without  the  protec- 
tion of  a  master  —  to  whom  the  cart-whip  and  the 
rice-swamp  would  be  a  change  for  the  better  — 
for  there,  at  least,  is  food  and  shelter. 

Slowly  and  distrustfully  a  dripping  scarecrow 
of  rags  and  bones  rose  from  his  hiding-place  in 
the  water,  and  then  stopped  suddenly,  and  seemed 
inclined  to  dash  through  the  river;  but  Tregarva 
held  him  fast. 

"There's  two  on  ye!  That's  a  shame!  I'll 
surrender  to  no  man  but  you,  Paul.  Hold  off,  or 
I  '11  set  the  dog  on  ye  ! " 

"It's  a  gentleman  fishing.  He  won't  tell  — 
will  you,  sir?"  And  he  turned  to  Lancelot. 
"  Have  pity  on  the  poor  creature,  sir,  for  God's 
sake  —  it  isn't  often  he  gets  it." 

"I    won't   tell,  my   man.     I've   not  seen  you 


132  Yeast 

doing  any  harm.  Come  out  like  a  man,  and  let's 
have  a  look  at  you. " 

The  creature  crawled  up  the  bank,  and  stood, 
abject  and  shivering,  with  the  dog  growling  from 
between  his  legs. 

"I  was  only  looking  for  a  kingfisher's  nest: 
indeed  now,  I  was,  Paul  Tregarva." 

"Don't  lie,  you  were  setting  night-lines.  I 
saw  a  minnow  lie  on  the  bank  as  I  came  up. 
Don't  lie;  I  hate  liars." 

"Well  indeed,  then  —  a  man  must  live  some- 
how." 

"You  don't  seem  to  live  by  this  trade,  my 
friend,"  quoth  Lancelot;  "I  cannot  say  it  seems 
a  prosperous  business,  by  the  look  of  your  coat 
and  trousers." 

"That  Tim  Goddard  stole  all  my  clothes,  and 
no  good  may  they  do  him ;  last  time  as  I  went  to 
gaol  I  gave  them  him  to  kep,  and  he  went  off  for 
a  navvy  meantime;  so  there  I  am." 

"If  you  will  play  with  the  dogs,"  quoth 
Tregarva,  "you  know  what  you  will  be  bit  by. 
Haven't  I  warned  you?  Of  course  you  won't 
prosper :  as  you  make  your  bed,  so  you  must  lie 
in  it.  The  Lord  can't  be  expected  to  let  those 
prosper  that  forget  Him.  What  mercy  would  it 
be  to  you  if  He  did  let  you  prosper  by  setting 
snares  all  church-time,  as  you  were  last  Sunday, 
instead  of  going  to  church  ?  " 

"I  say,  Paul  Tregarva,  I  've  told  you  my  mind 
about  that  afore.  If  I  don't  do  what  I  knows  to 
be  right  and  good  already,  there  ain't  no  use  in 
me  a  damning  myself  all  the  deeper  by  going  to 
church  to  hear  more." 

"  God  help  you ! "  quoth  poor  Paul. 


Whither?  133 

"Now,  I  say,"  quoth  Crawy,  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  took  the  whole  thing  as  a  matter  of 
course,  no  more  to  be  repined  at  than  the  rain 
and  wind  —  "what  be  you  a  going  to  do  with  me 
this  time?  I  do  hope  you  won't  have  me  up  to 
bench.  'T  ain't  a  month  now  as  I'm  out  o' 
prizzum  along  o'  they  fir-toppings,  and  I  should, 

you  see "  with  a  look  up  and  down  and  round 

at  the  gay  hay -meadows,  and  the  fleet  water,  and 
the  soft  gleaming  clouds,  which  to  Lancelot 
seemed  most  pathetic,  —  "I  should  like  to  ha'  a 
spell  o'  fresh  air,  like,  afore  I  goes  in  again." 

Tregarva  stood  over  him  and  looked  down  at 
him,  like  some  huge  stately  bloodhound  on  a 
trembling  mangy  cur.  "  Good  heavens ! "  thought 
Lancelot,  as  his  eye  wandered  from  the  sad  stead- 
fast dignity  of  the  one  to  the  dogged  helpless 
misery  of  the  other  •— •  "  can  those  two  be  really 
fellow-citizens  ?  fellow-Christians  ?  —  even  animals 
of  the  same  species  ?  Hard  to  believe ! " 

True,  Lancelot ;  but  to  quote  you  against  your- 
self, Bacon,  or  rather  the  instinct  which  taught 
Bacon,  teaches  you  to  discern  the  invisible  com- 
mon law  under  the  deceitful  phenomena  of 
sense. 

"I  must  have  those  night-lines,  Crawy,*'  quoth 
Tregarva,  at  length. 

"Then  I  must  starve.  You  might  ever  so  well 
take  away  the  dog.  They  're  the  life  of  me." 

"They're  the  death  of  you.  Why  don't  you 
go  and  work,  instead  of  idling  about,  stealing 
trout  ? " 

"Be  you  a  laughing  at  a  poor  fellow  in  his 
trouble?  Who'd  gie  me  a  day's  work,  I'd  like 
to  know  ?  It 's  twenty  year  too  late  for  that ! " 


134  Yeast 

Lancelot  stood  listening.  Yes,  that  wretch, 
too,  was  a  man  and  a  brother  —  at  least  so  books 
used  to  say.  Time  was,  when  he  had  looked  on 
a  poacher  as  a  Pariah  " hostem  hutnani  generis" 
—  and  only  deplored  that  the  law  forbade  him  to 
shoot  them  down,  like  cats  and  otters;  but  he 
had  begun  to  change  his  mind. 

He  had  learnt,  and  learnt  rightly,  the  self- 
indulgence,  the  danger,  the  cruelty,  of  indiscrimi- 
nate alms.  It  looked  well  enough  in  theory,  on 
paper.  "But  —  but  —  but,"  thought  Lancelot, 
"in  practice,  one  can't  help  feeling  a  little  of 
that  un-economic  feeling  called  pity.  No  doubt 
the  fellow  has  committed  an  unpardonable  sin  in 
daring  to  come  into  the  world  when  there  was  no 
call  for  him;  one  used  to  think,  certainly,  that 
children's  opinions  were  not  consulted  on  such 
points  before  they  were  born,  and  that  therefore 
it  might  be  hard  to  visit  the  sins  of  the  fathers 
on  the  children,  even  though  the  labor-market 
were  a  little  overstocked  — '  mais  nous  avons 
changt  tout  cela,'  like  M.  Jourdain's  doctors. 
No  doubt,  too,  the  fellow  might  have  got  work  if 
he  had  chosen  —  in  Kamschatka  or  the  Cannibal 
Islands;  for  the  political  economists  have  proved, 
beyond  a  doubt,  that  there  is  work  somewhere  or 
other  for  every  one  who  chooses  to  work.  But 
as,  unfortunately,  society  has  neglected  to  inform 
him  of  the  state  of  the  Cannibal  Island  labor- 
market,  or  to  pay  his  passage  thither  when 
informed  thereof,  he  has  had  to  choose  in  the 
somewhat  limited  labor-field  of  the  Whitford 
Priors'  union,  whose  workhouse  is  already  every 
winter  filled  with  abler-bodied  men  than  he, 
between  starvation  —  and  this Well,  as  for 


Whither?  135 

employing  him,    one  would   have    thought  that 

there  was  a  little   work  waiting  to  be  done  in 

those  five  miles  of  heather  and  snipe-bog,  which 

I  used  to  tramp  over  last  winter  —  but  those,  it 

seems,   are  still  on  the  'margin  of  cultivation,' 

and  not  a  remunerative  investment  —  that  is,  to 

capitalists.     I  wonder  if  any  one  had  made  Crawy 

a  present  of  ten  acres  of  them  when  he  came  of 

age,  and  commanded  him  to  till  that  or  be  hanged, 

whether  he  would  not  have  found  it  a  profitable 

investment  ?     But  bygones  are  bygones,  and  there 

he   is,  and   the  moors,  thanks  to  the   rights   of 

property  —  in  this  case  the  rights  of  the  dog  in 

the  manger  —  belong  to  poor  old  Lavington  —  that 

is,  the  game  and  timber  on  them;  and  neither 

Crawy  nor  any  one  else  can  touch  them.     What 

can  I  do  for  him  ?     Convert  him  ?  to  what  ?     For 

the  next  life,  even  Tregarva's  talisman  seems  to 

fail.     And  for  this  life  —  perhaps  if  he  had  had  a 

few  more  practical  proofs  of  a  divine  justice  and 

government  —  that  '  kingdom  of  heaven  '  of  which 

Luke  talks,  in  the  sensible  bodily  matters  which 

he  does  appreciate,  he  might  not  be  so  unwilling 

to  trust  to  it  for  the  invisible  spiritual  matters 

which  he  does  not  appreciate.     At  all  events,  one 

has  but  one  chance  of  winning  him,  and  that  is, 

through    those    five    senses   which   he  has   left. 

What  if  he  does  spend  the  money  in  gross  animal 

enjoyment  ?     What   will   the   amount   of    it   be, 

compared  with  the  animal  enjoyments  which  my 

station   allows   me  daily   without   reproach!     A 

little  more  bacon  —  a  little  more  beer  —  a  little 

more  tobacco;  at   all   events  they  will  be  more 

important  to  him  than  a  pair  of  new  boots  or  an 

extra  box  of  cigars  to  me. "  —  And  Lancelot  put 


136  Yeast 

his  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  pulled  out  a  sovereign. 
No  doubt  he  was  a  great  goose;  but  if  you  can 
answer  his  arguments,  reader,  I  cannot. 

"  Look  here  —  what  are  your  night-lines  worth  ? " 

"A  matter  of  seven  shilling;  ain't  they  now, 
Paul  Tregarva  ? " 

"I  should  suppose  they  are." 

"Then  do  you  give  me  the  lines,  one  and  all, 
and  there 's  a  sovereign  for  you.  —  No,  I  can't 
trust  you  with  it  all  at  once.  I  '11  give  it  to 
Tregarva,  and  he  shall  allow  you  four  shillings  a 
week  as  long  as  it  lasts,  if  you  '11  promise  to  keep 
off  Squire  Lavington's  river." 

It  was  pathetic,  and  yet  disgusting,  to  see  the 
abject  joy  of  the  poor  creature.  "Well,"  thought 
Lancelot,  "  if  he  deserves  to  be  wretched,  so  do 
I  —  why,  therefore,  if  we  are  one  as  bad  as  the 
other,  should  I  not  make  his  wretchedness  a  little 
less  for  the  time  being? " 

"I  wain't  come  a-near  the  water.  You  trust 
me  —  I  minds  them  as  is  kind  to  me  "  —  and  a 
thought  seemed  suddenly  to  lighten  up  his  dull 
intelligence. 

"  I  say,  Paul,  hark  you  here.  I  see  that  Bantam 
into  D t'other  day." 

"What!  is  he  down  already?" 

"With  a  dog-cart;  he  and  another  of  his  pals; 
and  I  see  'em  take  out  a  silk  flue,  I  did.  So, 
says  I,  you  maun't  be  trying  that  ere  along  o'  the 
Whitford  trout;  they  kepers  is  out  o'  nights  so 
sure  as  the  moon." 

"  You  did  n't  know  that.     Lying  again ! " 

"No,  but  I  sayed  it  in  course.  I  didn't  want 
they  a-robbing  here;  so  I  think  they  worked 
mainly  up  Squire  Vaurien's  water." 


Whither?  137 

"  I  wish  I  'd  caught  them  here,"  quoth  Tregarva, 
grimly  enough;  "though  I  don't  think  they 
came,  or  I  should  have  seen  the  track  on  the 
banks." 

"But  he  sayed  like,  as  how  he  should  be  down 
here  again  about  pheasant  shooting." 

"  Trust  him  for  it.  Let  us  know,  now,  if  you 
see  him." 

"And  that  I  will,  too.  I  wouldn't  save  a 
feather  for  that  'ere  old  rascal,  Harry.  If  the 
devil  don't  have  he,  I  don't  see  no  use  in  keep- 
ing no  devil.  But  I  minds  them  as  has  mercy  on 
me,  though  my  name  is  Crawy.  Ay,"  he  added 
bitterly,  "  't  ain't  so  many  kind  turns  as  I  gets  in 
this  life,  that  I  can  afford  to  forget  e'er  a  one." 
And  he  sneaked  off,  with  the  deaf  dog  at  his 
heels. 

"How  did  that  fellow  get  his  name,  Tre- 
garva ? " 

"  Oh,  most  of  them  have  nicknames  round  here. 
Some  of  them  hardly  know  their  own  real  names, 
sir."  ("A  sure  sign  of  low  civilization,"  thought 
Lancelot.)  "But  he  got  his  a  foolish  way;  and 
yet  it  was  the  ruin  of  him.  When  he  was  a  boy 
of  fifteen,  he  got  miching  away  in  church-time, 
as  boys  will,  and  took  off  his  clothes  to  get  in 
somewhere  here  in  this  very  river,  groping  in  the 
banks  after  craw-fish ;  and  as  the  devil  —  for  I 
can  think  no  less  —  would  have  it,  a  big  one 
catches  hold  of  him  by  the  fingers  with  one  claw, 
and  a  root  with  the  other,  and  holds  him  there 
till  Squire  Lavington  comes  out  to  take  his  walk 
after  church,  and  there  he  caught  the  boy,  and 
gave  him  a  thrashing  there  and  then,  naked  as  he 
stood.  And  the  story  got  wind,  and  all  the 


138  Yeast 

chaps  round  called  him  Crawy  ever  afterwards, 
and  the  poor  fellow  got  quite  reckless  from  that 
day,  and  never  looked  any  one  in  the  face  again ; 
and  being  ashamed  of  himself,  you  see,  sir,  was 
never  ashamed  of  anything  else  —  and  there  he  is. 
That  dog  's  his  only  friend,  and  gets  a  livelihood 
for  them  both.  It 's  growing  old  now;  and  when 
it  dies,  he  '11  starve." 

"Well  —  the  world  has  no  right  to  blame  him 
for  not  doing  his  duty,  till  it  has  done  its  own  by 
him  a  little  better." 

"But  the  world  will,  sir,  because  it  hates  its 
duty,  and  cries  all  day  long,  like  Cain,  '  Am  I 
my  brother's  keeper?'" 

"Do  you  think  it  knows  its  duty?  I  have 
found  it  easy  enough  to  see  that  something  is 
diseased,  Tregarva;  but  to  find  the  medicine 
first,  and  to  administer  it  afterwards,  is  a  very 
different  matter." 

"Well  —  I  suppose  the  world  will  never  be 
mended  till  the  day  of  judgment." 

"In  plain  English,  not  mended  till  it  is  de- 
stroyed. Hopeful  for  the  poor  world !  I  should 
fancy,  if  I  believed  that,  that  the  devil  in  the 
old  history  —  which  you  believe  —  had  had  the 
best  of  it  with  a  vengeance,  when  he  brought 
sin  into  the  world,  and  ruined  it.  I  dare 
not  believe,  that.  How  dare  you,  who  say  that 
God  sent  His  Son  into  the  world  to  defeat  the 
devil?" 

Tregarva  was  silent  awhile. 

"Learning  and  the  Gospel  together  ought  to 
do  something,  sir,  towards  mending  it.  One 
would  think  so.  But  the  prophecies  are  against 
that." 


Whither?  139 

"As  folks  happen  to  read  them  just  now.  A 
hundred  years  hence  they  may  be  finding  the  very 
opposite  meaning  in  them.  Come,  Tregarva,  — 
suppose  I  teach  you  a  little  of  the  learning,  and 
you  teach  me  a  little  of  the  Gospel  —  do  you 
think  we  two  could  mend  the  world  between  us, 
or  even  mend  Whitf ord  Priors  ? " 

"God  knows,  sir,"  said  Tregarva. 

"Tregarva,"  said  Lancelot,  as  they  were  land- 
ing the  next  trout,  "where  will  that  Crawy  go 
when  he  dies  ?  " 

"God  knows,  sir,"  said  Tregarva. 

Lancelot  went  thoughtful  home,  and  sat  down 

—  not  to  answer  Luke's  letter  —  for  he  knew  no 
answer  but  Tregarva's,  and  that,  alas!  he  could 
not  give,  for   he  did   not   believe   it,   but   only 
longed  to  believe  it.     So  he  turned  off  the  sub- 
ject by  a  question  — 

"  You  speak  of  yourself  as  being  already  a  member 
of  the  Romish  communion.  How  is  this?  Have  you 
given  up  your  curacy?  Have  you  told  your  father?  I 
fancy  that  if  you  had  done  so  I  must  have  heard  of  it 
ere  now.  I  entreat  you  to  tell  me  the  state  of  the  case, 
for,  heathen  as  I  am,  I  am  still  an  Englishman;  and 
there  are  certain  old  superstitions  still  lingering  among 
us  —  whencesoever  we  may  have  got  them  first  —  about 
truth  and  common  honesty  —  you  understand  me.  — 

"  Do  not  be  angry.  But  there  is  a  prejudice  against 
the  truthfulness  of  Romish  priests  and  Romish  converts. 

—  It's  no  affair  of  mine.     I  see  quite  enough  Protestant 
rogues  and  liars,  to  prevent  my  having  any  pleasure  in 
proving  Romanists,  or  any  other  persons,  rogues  and 


140  Yeast 

liars  also.  But  I  am  —  if  not  fond  of  you  —  at  least 
sufficiently  fond  to  be  anxious  for  your  good  name.  You 
used  to  be  an  open-hearted  fellow  enough.  Do  prove 
to  the  world  that  cesium,  non  animum  mutant,  qui  trans 
mare  currunt" 


CHAPTER   IX 

HARRY  VERNEY  HEARS  HIS  LAST  SHOT  FIRED 


day  after  the  Lavingtons'  return,  when 

J.  Lancelot  walked  up  to  the  Priory  with  a 
fluttering  heart  to  inquire  after  all  parties,  and 
see  one,  he  found  the  squire  in  a  great  state  of 
excitement. 

A  large  gang  of  poachers,  who  had  come  down 
from  London  by  rail,  had  been  devastating  all 
the  covers  round,  to  stock  the  London  markets  by 
the  first  of  October,  and  intended,  as  Tregarva 
had  discovered,  to  pay  Mr.  Lavington's  preserves 
a  visit  that  night.  They  didn't  care  for  country 
justices,  not  they.  Weren't  all  their  fines  paid 
by  highly  respectable  game-dealers  at  the  West 
End  ?  They  owned  three  dog-carts  among  them  ; 
a  parcel  by  railway  would  bring  them  down  bail 
to  any  amount  ;  they  tossed  their  money  away  at 
the  public-houses,  like  gentlemen;  thanks  to  the 
game  laws,  their  profits  ran  high,  and  when 
they  had  swept  the  country  pretty  clean  of  game, 
why,  they  would  just  finish  off  the  season  by  a 
stray  highway  robbery  or  two,  and  vanish  into 
Babylon  and  their  native  night. 

Such  was  Harry  Verney's  information  as  he 
strutted  about  the  courtyard  waiting  for  the 
squire's  orders. 

"But  they  've  put  their  nose  into  a  furze-bush, 
Muster  Smith,  they  have.  We  've  got  our  posse- 


142  Yeast 

commontaturs,  fourteen  men,  sir,  as  '11  play  the 
whole  vale  to  cricket,  and  whap  them ;  and  every 
one  '11  fight,  for  they  're  half  poachers  themselves, 
you  see  "  (and  Harry  winked  and  chuckled) ;  "and 
they  can't  abide  no  interlopers  to  come  down  and 
take  the  sport  out  of  their  mouths. " 

"But  are  you  sure  they'll  come  to-night?" 

"  That  'ere  Paul  says  so.  Wonder  how  he  found 
out — some  of  his  underhand,  colloguing,  Meth- 
odist ways,  I  '11  warrant.  I  seed  him  preaching 
to  that  'ere  Crawy,  three  or  four  times  when  he 
ought  to  have  hauled  him  up.  He  consorts  with 
them  poachers,  sir,  uncommon.  I  hope  he  ben't 
one  himself,  that's  all." 

"  Nonsense,  Harry !  " 

"Oh?  Eh?  Don't  say  old  Harry  don't  know 
nothing,  that 's  all.  I  've  fixed  his  flint,  anyhow." 

"  Ah  !  Smith  !  "  shouted  the  squire  out  of  his 
study  window,  with  a  cheerful  and  appropriate 
oath.  "  The  very  man  I  wanted  to  see !  You 
must  lead  these  keepers  for  me  to-night.  They 
always  fight  better  with  a  gentleman  among  them. 
Breeding  tells,  you  know  —  breeding  tells." 

Lancelot  felt  a  strong  disgust  at  the  occupation, 
but  he  was  under  too  many  obligations  to  the 
squire  to  refuse. 

"  Ay,  I  knew  you  were  game,"  said  the  old  man. 
"  And  you  '11  find  it  capital  fun.  I  used  to  think  it 
so,  I  know,  when  I  was  young.  Many  a  shindy 
have  I  had  here  in  my  uncle's  time,  under  the 
very  windows,  before  the  chase  was  disparked, 
when  the  fellows  used  to  come  down  after  the 
deer." 

Just  then  Lancelot  turned  and  saw  Argemone 
standing  close  to  him.  He  almost  sprang  towards 


Verney  Hears  His  Last  Shot  Fired     143 

her  —  and  retreated,  for  he  saw  that  she  had  over- 
heard the  conversation  between  him  and  her  father. 

"  What !  Mr.  Smith ! "  said  she,  in  a  tone  in 
which  tenderness  and  contempt,  pity  and  affected 
carelessness,  were  strangely  mingled.  "  So  !  you 
are  going  to  turn  gamekeeper  to-night?" 

Lancelot  was  blundering  out  something,  when 
the  squire  interposed. 

"  Let  her  alone,  Smith.  Women  will  be  tender- 
hearted, you  know.  Quite  right  —  but  they  don't 
understand  these  things.  They  fight  with  their 
tongues,  and  we  with  our  fists;  and  then  they 
fancy  their  weapons  don't  hurt  —  Ha !  ha !  ha !  " 

"  Mr.  Smith,"  said  Argemone,  in  a  low,  deter- 
mined voice,  "  if  you  have  promised  my  father 
to  go  on  this  horrid  business  —  go.  But  promise 
me,  too,  that  you  will  only  look  on,  or  I  will 
never " 

Argemone  had  not  time  to  finish  her  sentence 
before  Lancelot  had  promised  seven  times  over, 
and  meant  to  keep  his  promise,  as  we  all  do. 

About  ten  o'clock  that  evening  Lancelot  and 
Tregarva  were  walking  stealthily  up  a  ride  in 
one  of  the  home-covers,  at  the  head  of  some 
fifteen  fine  young  fellows,  keepers,  grooms,  and 
not  extempore  "  watchers,  "  whom  old  Harry  was 
marshalling  and  tutoring,  with  exhortations  as 
many  and  as  animated  as  if  their  ambition  was 
Mourir  pour  la  patrie. 

"  How  does  this  sort  of  work  suit  you,  Tregarva, 
for  I  don't  like  it  at  all !  The  fighting 's  all  very 
well,  but  it's  a  poor  cause." 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  have  no  mercy  on  these  Londoners. 
If  it  was  these  poor  half-starved  laborers,  that 
snare  the  same  hares  that  have  been  eating  up 


144  Yeast 

their    garden-stuff  all  the    week,   I    can't    touch 

them,  sir,  and  that 's  truth ;  but  these  ruffians 

And  yet,  sir,  would  n't  it  be  better  for  the  parsons 
to  preach  to  them,  than  for  the  keepers  to  break 
their  heads?" 

"  Oh !  "  said  Lancelot,  "  the  parsons  say  all  to 
them  that  they  can." 

Tregarva  shook  his  head. 

"  I  doubt  that,  sir.  But,  no  doubt,  there  's 
a  great  change  for  the  better  in  the  parsons. 
I  remember  the  time,  sir,  that  there  was  n't  an 
earnest  clergyman  in  the  vale;  and  now  every 
other  man  you  meet  is  trying  to  do  his  best. 
But  those  London  parsons,  sir,  what 's  the  matter 
with  them  ?  For  all  their  societies  and  their  schools, 
the  devil  seems  to  keep  ahead  of  them  sadly.  I 
doubt  they  have  n't  found  the  right  fly  yet  for 
publicans  and  sinners  to  rise  at. " 

A  distant  shot  in  the  cover. 

"There  they  are,  sir.  I  thought  that  Crawy 
would  n't  lead  me  false  when  I  let  him  off." 

"  Well,  fight  away,  then,  and  win.  I  have  prom- 
ised Miss  Lavington  not  to  lift  a  hand  in  the 
business." 

"  Then  you  're  a  lucky  man,  sir.  But  the 
squire's  game  is  his  own,  and  we  must  do  our 
duty  by  our  master." 

There  was  a  rustle  in  the  bushes,  and  a  tramp 
of  feet  on  the  turf. 

"  There  they  are,  sir,  sure  enough.  The  Lord 
keep  us  from  murder  this  night !  "  And  Tregarva 
pulled  off  his  neckcloth,  and  shook  his  huge  limbs, 
as  if  to  feel  that  they  were  all  in  their  places,  in  a 
way  that  augured  ill  for  the  man  who  came  across 
him. 


Verney  Hears  His  Last  Shot  Fired     145 

They  turned  the  corner  of  a  ride,  and,  in  an  in- 
stant, found  themselves  face  to  face  with  five  or  six 
armed  men,  with  blackened  faces,  who,  without 
speaking  a  word,  dashed  at  them,  and  the  fight 
began ;  reinforcements  came  up  on  each  side,  and 
the  engagement  became  general. 

"  The  forest-laws  were  sharp  and  stern, 

The  forest  blood  was  keen, 
They  lashed  together  for  life  and  death 
Beneath  the  hollies  green. 

"  The  metal  good  and  the  walnut-wood 

Did  soon  in  splinters  flee ; 
They  tossed  the  orts  to  south  and  north, 
And  grappled  knee  to  knee. 

u  They  wrestled  up,  they  wrestled  down, 

They  wrestled  still  and  sore  ; 
The  herbage  sweet  beneath  their  feet 
Was  stamped  to  mud  and  gore." 

And  all  the  while  the  broad  still  moon  stared 
down  on  them  grim  and  cold,  as  if  with  a  saturnine 
sneer  at  the  whole  humbug;  and  the  silly  birds 
about  whom  all  this  butchery  went  on,  slept 
quietly  over  their  heads,  every  one  with  his  head 
under  his  wing.  Oh !  if  pheasants  had  but  under- 
standing, how  they  would  split  their  sides  with 
chuckling  and  crowing  at  the  follies  which  civilized 
Christian  men  perpetrate  for  their  precious  sake ! 

Had  I  the  pen  of  Homer  (though  they  say  he 
never  used  one),  or  even  that  of  the  worthy  who 
wasted  precious  years  in  writing  a  "  Homer  Bur- 
lesqued," what  heroic  exploits  might  not  I  immor- 
talize !  In  every  stupid  serf  and  cunning  ruffian 
there,  there  was  a  heart  as  brave  as  Ajax's  own ; 
but  then  they  fought  with  sticks  instead  of  lances, 


1 46  Yeast 

and  hammered  away  on  fustian  jackets  instead  of 
brazen  shields;  and,  therefore,  poor  fellows,  they 
were  beneath  "the  dignity  of  poetry,"  whatever 
that  may  mean.  If  one  of  your  squeamish  "  dig- 
nity-of-poetry "  critics  had  just  had  his  head 
among  the  gun-stocks  for  five  minutes  that  night, 
he  would  have  found  it  grim  tragic  earnest  enough ; 
not  without  a  touch  of  fun,  though,  here  and  there. 
Lancelot  leant  against  a  tree  and  watched  the 
riot  with  folded  arms,  mindful  of  his  promise  to 
Argemone,  and  envied  Tregarva  as  he  hurled  his 
assailants  right  and  left  with  immense  strength, 
and  led  the  van  of  battle  royally.  Little  would 
Argemone  have  valued  the  real  proof  of  love 
which  he  was  giving  her  as  he  looked  on  sulkily, 
while  his  fingers  tingled  with  longing  to  be  up  and 
doing.  Strange  —  that  mere  lust  of  fighting,  com- 
mon to  man  and  animals,  whose  traces  even  the 
lamb  and  the  civilized  child  evince  in  their  mock- 
fights,  the  earliest  and  most  natural  form  of  play. 
Is  it,  after  all,  the  one  human  propensity  which  is 
utterly  evil,  incapable  of  being  turned  to  any 
righteous  use?  Gross  and  animal  no  doubt  it  is, 
but  not  the  less  really  pleasant,  as  every  Irishman 
and  many  an  Englishman  knows  well  enough.  A 
curious  instance  of  this,  by  the  by,  occurred  in 
Paris  during  the  February  Revolution.  A  fat 
English  coachman  went  out,  from  mere  curiosity, 
to  see  the  fighting.  As  he  stood  and  watched,  a 
new  passion  crept  over  him ;  he  grew  madder  and 
madder  as  the  bullets  whistled  past  him ;  at  last, 
when  men  began  to  drop  by  his  side,  he  could 
stand  it  no  longer,  seized  a  musket,  and  rushed  in, 
careless  which  side  he  took,  — 

"  To  drink  delight  of  battle  with  his  peers." 


Verney  Hears  His  Last  Shot  Fired     147 

He  was  not  heard  of  for  a  day  or  two,  and  then 
they  found  him  stiff  and  cold,  lying  on  his  face 
across  a  barricade,  with  a  bullet  through  his  heart. 
Sedentary  persons  may  call  him  a  sinful  fool.  Be 
it  so.  Homo  sum:  humani  nihil  d  me  alienum 
puto. 

Lancelot,  I  verily  believe,  would  have  kept  his 
promise,  though  he  saw  that  the  keepers  gave 
ground,  finding  Cockney  skill  too  much  for  their 
clumsy  strength;  but  at  last  Harry  Verney,  who 
had  been  righting  as  venomously  as  a  wild  cat,  and 
had  been  once  before  saved  from  a  broken  skull 
by  Tregarva,  rolled  over  at  his  very  feet  with  a 
couple  of  poachers  on  him. 

"  You  won't  see  an  old  man  murdered,  Mr. 
Smith?"  cried  he,  imploringly. 

Lancelot  tore  the  ruffians  off  the  old  man  right 
and  left.  One  of  them  struck  him;  he  returned 
the  blow;  and,  in  an  instant,  promises  and 
Argemone,  philosophy  and  anti-game-law  preju- 
dices, were  swept  out  of  his  head,  and  "  he  went " 
as  the  old  romances  say,  "  hurling  into  the  midst 
of  the  press,"  as  mere  a  wild  animal  for  the 
moment  as  angry  bull  or  boar.  An  instant  after- 
wards, though,  he  burst  out  laughing,  in  spite 
of  himself,  as  "  The  Battersea  Bantam, "  who  had 
been  ineffectually  dancing  round  Tregarva  like  a 
gamecock  spurring  at  a  bull,  turned  off  with  a 
voice  of  ineffable  disgust: 

"  That  big  cove  's  a  yokel ;  ta'nt  creditable  to 
waste  science  on  him.  You  're  my  man,  if  you 
please,  sir,"  —  and  the  little  wiry  lump  of  courage 
and  conceit,  rascality  and  good  humor,  flew  at 
Lancelot,  who  was  twice  his  size,  "  with  a  heroism 
worthy  of  a  better  cause,"  as  respectable  papers, 


148  Yeast 

when  they  are  not  too   frightened,   say  of  the 
French. 

"  Do  you  want  any  more  ?  "  asked  Lancelot. 

"  Quite  a  pleasure,  sir,  to  meet  a  scientific  genT- 
man.  Beg  your  pardon,  sir ;  stay  a  moment  while 
I  wipes  my  face.  Now,  sir,  time,  if  you  please." 

Alas  for  the  little  man !  in  another  moment  he 
tumbled  over  and  lay  senseless  —  Lancelot  thought 
he  had  killed  him.  The  gang  saw  their  champion 
fall,  gave  ground,  and  limped  off,  leaving  three 
of  their  party  groaning  on  the  ground,  beside 
as  many  Whitford  men. 

As  it  was  in  the  beginning,  so  is  it  to  be  to  the 
end,  my  foolish  brothers !  From  the  poacher 
to  the  prime  minister  —  wearying  yourselves  for 
very  vanity !  The  soldier  is  not  the  only  man  in 
England  who  is  fool  enough  to  be  shot  at  for  a 
shilling  a  day. 

But  while  all  the  rest  were  busy  picking  up  the 
wounded  men  and  securing  the  prisoners,  Harry 
Verney  alone  held  on,  and  as  the  poachers  retreated 
slowly  up  the  ride,  he  followed  them,  peering  into 
the  gloom,  as  if  in  hopes  of  recognizing  some  old 
enemy. 

"  Stand  back,  Harry  Verney ;  we  know  you,  and 
we  'd  be  loath  to  harm  an  old  man, "  cried  a  voice 
out  of  the  darkness. 

"Eh?  Do  you  think  old  Harry 'd  turn  back 
when  he  was  once  on  the  track  of  ye?  You 
soft-fisted,  gin-drinking,  counter-skipping  Cockney 
rascals,  that  fancy  you  're  to  carry  the  county 
before  you,  because  you  get  your  fines  paid  by 
London-tradesmen!  Eh?  What  do  you  take  old 
Harry  for?" 


Verney  Hears  His  Last  Shot  Fired     149 

"  Go  back,  you  old  fool !  "  and  a  volley  of  oaths 
followed.  "  If  you  follow  us,  we  '11  fire  at  you,  as 
sure  as  the  moon's  in  heaven !  " 

"  Fire  away,  then !  I  '11  follow  you  to  ! " 

and  the  old  man  paced  stealthily  but  firmly  up 
to  them. 

Tregarva  saw  his  danger  and  sprang  forward, 
but  it  was  too  late. 

"  What,  you  will  have  it,  then?  " 

A  sharp  crack  followed,  —  a  bright  flash  in  the 
darkness  —  every  white  birch-stem  and  jagged 
oak-leaf  shone  out  for  a  moment  as  bright  as  day 
—  and  in  front  of  the  glare  Lancelot  saw  the  old 
man  throw  his  arms  wildly  upward,  fall  forward, 
and  disappear  on  the  dark  ground. 

"  You  Ve  done  it !  off  with  you  ! "  And  the 
rascals  rushed  off  up  the  ride. 

In  a  moment  Tregarva  was  by  the  old  man's 
side,  and  lifted  him  tenderly  up. 

"  They  've  done  for  me,  Paul.  Old  Harry  's  got 
his  gruel.  He's  heard  his  last  shot  fired.  I  knowed 
it  'ud  come  to  this,  and  I  said  it.  Eh?  Did  n't  I, 
now,  Paul?"  And  as  the  old  man  spoke,  the 
workings  of  his  lungs  pumped  great  jets  of  blood 
out  over  the  still  heather-flowers  as  they  slept  in 
the  moonshine,  and  dabbled  them  with  smoking 
gore. 

"  Here,  men,"  shouted  the  colonel,  "  up  with 
him  at  once,  and  home !  Here,  put  a  brace  of 
your  guns  together,  muzzle  and  lock.  Help  him 
to  sit  on  them,  Lancelot.  There,  Harry,  put  your 
arms  round  their  necks.  Tregarva,  hold  him  up 
behind.  Now  then,  men,  left  legs  foremost  —  keep 
step  —  march  !  "  And  they  moved  off  towards 
the  Priory. 


150  Yeast 

"You  seem  to  know  everything,  colonel,"  said 
Lancelot. 

The  colonel  did  not  answer  for  a  moment. 

"Lancelot,  I  learnt  this  dodge  from  the  only 
friend  I  ever  had  in  the  world,  or  ever  shall  have ; 
and  a  week  after  I  marched  him  home  to  his 
deathbed  in  this  very  way." 

"Paul  —  Paul  Tregarva,"  whispered  old  Harry, 
"put  your  head  down  here:  wipe  my  mouth, 
there's  a  man;  it's  wet,  uncommon  wet"  It 
was  his  own  life-blood.  "  I  've  been  a  beast  to 
you,  Paul.  I  've  hated  you,  and  envied  you,  and 
tried  to  ruin  you.  And  now  you  've  saved  my 
life  once  this  night;  and  here  you  be  a-nursing 
of  me  as  my  own  son  might  do,  if  he  was  here, 
poor  fellow!  I've  ruined  you,  Paul;  the  Lord 
forgive  me!" 

"Pray!  pray!"  said  Paul,  "and  He  will  for- 
give you.  He  is  all  mercy.  He  pardoned  the 
thief  on  the  cross " 

"  No,  Paul,  no  thief,  —  not  so  bad  as  that,  I 
hope,  anyhow ;  never  touched  a  feather  of  the 
squire's.  But  you  dropped  a  song,  Paul,  a  bit  of 
writing." 

Paul  turned  pale. 

"  And  —  the  Lord  forgive  me !  —  I  put  it  in  the 
squire's  fly-book." 

"The  Lord  forgive  you!  Amen!"  said  Paul, 
solemnly. 

Wearily  and  slowly  they  stepped  on  towards 
the  old  man's  cottage.  A  messenger  had  gone 
on  before,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  squire,  Mrs. 
Lavington,  and  the  girls  were  round  the  bed  of 
their  old  retainer. 

They  sent  off  right  and  left  for  the  doctor  and 


Verney  Hears  His  Last  Shot  Fired     151 

the  vicar;  the  squire  was  in  a  frenzy  of  rage  and 
grief. 

"Don't  take  on,  master,  don't  take  on,"  said 
old  Harry,  as  he  lay;  while  the  colonel  and 
Honoria  in  vain  endeavored  to  stanch  the  wound. 
"I  knowed  it  would  be  so,  sooner  or  later;  'tis 
all  in  the  way  of  business.  They  have  n't  carried 
off  a  bird,  squire,  not  a  bird;  we  was  too  many 
for  'em  — eh,  Paul,  eh?" 

"Where  is  that  cursed  doctor?"  said  the 
squire.  "Save  him,  colonel,  save  him;  and  I'll 
give  you " 

Alas !  the  charge  of  shot  at  a  few  feet  distance 
had  entered  like  a  bullet,  tearing  a  great  ragged 
hole.  — There  was  no  hope,  and  the  colonel  knew 
it;  but  he  said  nothing. 

"The  second  keeper,"  sighed  Argemone,  "who 
has  been  killed  here !  Oh,  Mr.  Smith,  must  this 
be?  Is  God's  blessing  on  all  this? " 

Lancelot  said  nothing.  The  old  man  lighted 
up  at  Argemone's  voice. 

"There's  the  beauty,  there's  the  pride  of 
Whitford.  And  sweet  Miss  Honor,  too,  —  so 
kind  to  nurse  a  poor  old  man !  But  she  never 
would  let  him  teach  her  to  catch  perch,  would 
she?  She  was  always  too  tender-hearted.  Ah, 
squire,  when  we  're  dead  and  gone,  —  dead  and 
gone,  —  squire,  they  '11  be  the  pride  of  Whitford 
still !  And  they  '11  keep  up  the  old  place  —  won't 
you,  my  darlings  ?  And  the  old  name,  too !  For, 
you  know,  there  must  always  be  a  Lavington  in 
Whitford  Priors,  till  the  Nun's  pool  runs  up  to 
Ashy  Down." 

"And  a  curse  upon  the  Lavingtons,"  sighed 
Argemone  to  herself  in  an  undertone. 


152  Yeast 

Lancelot  heard  what  she  said. 

The  vicar  entered,  but  he  was  too  late.  The 
old  man's  strength  was  failing,  and  his  mind 
began  to  wander. 

"Windy,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  "windy, 
dark  and  windy  —  birds  won't  lie  —  not  old 
Harry's  fault.  How  black  it  grows!  We  must 
be  gone  by  nightfall,  squire.  Where's  that 
young  dog  gone?  Arter  the  larks,  the  brute." 

Old  Squire  Lavington  sobbed  like  a  child. 

"You  will  soon  be  home,  my  man,"  said  the 
vicar.  "  Remember  that  you  have  a  Saviour  in 
heaven.  Cast  yourself  on  His  mercy." 

Harry  shook  his  head. 

"Very  good  words,  very  kind, — very  heavy 
gamebag,  though.  Never  get  home,  never  any 
more  at  all.  Where  's  my  boy  Tom  to  carry  it  ? 
Send  for  my  boy  Tom.  He  was  always  a  good 
boy  till  he  got  along  with  them  poachers. " 

"Listen,"  he  said,  "listen!  There's  bells 
a-ringing  —  ringing  in  my  head.  Come  you  here, 
Paul  Tregarva. " 

He  pulled  Tregarva's  face  down  to  his  own, 
and  whispered : 

"Them  's  the  bells  a-ringing  for  Miss  Honor's 
wedding." 

Paul  started  and  drew  back.  Harry  chuckled 
and  grinned  for  a  moment  in  his  old  foxy,  peer- 
ing way,  and  then  wandered  off  again. 

"  What 's  that  thumping  and  roaring  ? "  Alas ! 
it  was  the  failing  pulsation  of  his  own  heart. 
"It's  the  weir,  the  weir  —  a-washing  me  away 

—  thundering  over  me.  —  Squire,  I  'm  drowning, 

—  drowning  and  choking!     Oh,  Lord,  how  deepl 


Verney  Hears  His  Last  Shot  Fired     153 

Now  it's  running  quieter  —  now  I  can  breathe 
again  —  swift  and  oily  —  running  on,  running  on, 
down  to  the  sea.  See  how  the  grayling  sparkle! 
There's  a  pike!  'T ain't  my  fault,  squire,  so 

help  me Don't  swear,  now,  squire ;  old  men 

and  dying  maun't  swear,  squire.  How  steady 
the  river  runs  down !  Lower  and  slower  —  lower 

and  slower:  now  it's  quite  still  —  still 

still » 

His  voice  sank  away  —  he  was  dead ! 

No!  once  more  the  light  flashed  up  in  the 
socket.  He  sprang  upright  in  the  bed,  and  held 
out  his  withered  paw  with  a  kind  of  wild  majesty, 
as  he  shouted : 

"There  ain't  such  a  head  of  hares  on  any 
manor  in  the  county.  And  them's  the  last  words 
of  Harry  Verney !  " 

He  fell  back  —  shuddered  —  a  rattle  in  his 
^throat  —  another  —  and  all  was  over. 


H— Voi.Y 


CHAPTER  X 
"MURDER  WILL  OUT,"  AND  LOVE  TOO 

A  RGEMONE  need  never  have  known  of 
£\.  Lancelot's  share  in  the  poaching  affray; 
but  he  dared  not  conceal  anything  from  her. 
And  so  he  boldly  went  up  the  next  day  to  the 
Priory,  not  to  beg  pardon,  but  to  justify  himself, 
and  succeeded.  And,  before  long,  he  found  him- 
self fairly  installed  as  her  pupil,  nominally  in 
spiritual  matters,  but  really  in  subjects  of  which 
she  little  dreamed. 

Every  day  he  came  to  read  and  talk  with  her, 
and  whatever  objections  Mrs.  Lavington  expressed 
were  silenced  by  Argemone.  She  would  have  it 
so,  and  her  mother  neither  dared  nor  knew  how 
to  control  her.  The  daughter  had  utterly  out- 
read  and  out-thought  her  less  educated  parent, 
who  was  clinging  in  honest  bigotry  to  the  old 
forms,  while  Argemone  was  wandering  forth  over 
the  chaos  of  the  strange  new  age,  —  a  poor  home- 
less Noah's  dove,  seeking  rest  for  the  sole  of  her 
foot  and  finding  none.  And  now  all  motherly 
influence  and  sympathy  had  vanished,  and  Mrs. 
Lavington,  in  fear  and  wonder,  let  her  daughter 
go  her  own  way.  She  could  not  have  done 
better,  perhaps;  for  Providence  had  found  for 
Argemone  a  better  guide  than  her  mother  could 
have  done,  and  her  new  pupil  was  rapidly  becom- 
ing her  teacher.  She  was  matched,  for  the  first 


"Murder  will  out,'*  and  Love  too     155 

time,  with  a  man  who  was  her  own  equal  in  intel- 
lect and  knowledge;  and  she  felt  how  real  was 
that  sexual  difference  which  she  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  consider  as  an  insolent  calumny  against 
woman.  Proudly  and  indignantly  she  struggled 
against  the  conviction,  but  in  vain.  Again  and 
again  she  argued  with  him,  and  was  vanquished, 
—  or,  at  least,  what  is  far  better,  made  to  see 
how  many  different  sides  there  are  to  every 
question.  All  appeals  to  authority  he  answered 
with  a  contemptuous  smile.  "The  best  authori- 
ties?" he  used  to  say.  "On  what  question  do 
not  the  best  authorities  flatly  contradict  each 
other?  And  why?  Because  every  man  believes 
just  what  it  suits  him  to  believe.  Don't  fancy 
that  men  reason  themselves  into  convictions;  the 
prejudices  and  feelings  of  their  hearts  give  them 
some  idea  or  theory,  and  then  they  find  facts  at 
their  leisure  to  prove  their  theory  true.  Every 
man  sees  facts  through  narrow  spectacles,  red,  or 
green,  or  blue,  as  his  nation  or  his  temperament 
colors  them :  and  he  is  quite  right,  only  he  must 
allow  us  the  liberty  of  having  our  spectacles  too. 
Authority  is  only  good  for  proving  facts.  We 
must  draw  our  own  conclusions."  And  Argemone 
began  to  suspect  that  he  was  right,  —  at  least  to 
see  that  her  opinions  were  mere  hearsays,  picked 
up  at  her  own  will  and  fancy;  while  his  were 
living,  daily-growing  ideas.  Her  mind  was 
beside  his  as  the  vase  of  cut  flowers  by  the  side 
of  the  rugged  tree,  whose  roots  are  feeding  deep 
in  the  mother  earth.  In  him  she  first  learnt  how 
one  great  truth  received  into  the  depths  of  the 
soul  germinates  there,  and  bears  fruit  a  thousand- 
fold; explaining,  and  connecting,  and  glorifying 


156  Yeast 

innumerable  things,  apparently  the  most  unlike 
and  insignificant;  and  daily  she  became  a  more 
reverent  listener,  and  gave  herself  up,  half  against 
her  will  and  conscience,  to  the  guidance  of  a  man 
whom  she  knew  to  be  her  inferior  in  morals  and 
in  orthodoxy.  She  had  worshipped  intellect, 
and  now  it  had  become  her  tyrant ;  and  she  was 
ready  to  give  up  every  belief  which  she  once  had 
prized,  to  flutter  like  a  moth  round  its  fascinating 
brilliance. 

Who  can  blame  her,  poor  girl?  For  Lance- 
lot's humility  was  even  more  irresistible  than  his 
eloquence.  He  assumed  no  superiority.  He 
demanded  her  assent  to  truths,  not  because  they 
were  his  opinions,  but  simply  for  the  truth's 
sake ;  and  on  all  points  which  touched  the  heart 
he  looked  up  to  her  as  infallible  and  inspired. 
In  questions  of  morality,  of  taste,  of  feeling,  he 
listened  not  as  a  lover  to  his  mistress,  but  rather 
as  a  baby  to  its  mother;  and  thus,  half  uncon- 
sciously to  himself,  he  taught  her  where  her  true 
kingdom  lay,  —  that  the  heart,  and  not  the  brain, 
enshrines  the  priceless  pearl  of  womanhood,  the 
oracular  jewel,  the  "Urim  and  Thummim,"  before 
which  gross  man  can  only  inquire  and  adore. 

And,  in  the  meantime,  a  change  was  passing 
upon  Lancelot.  His  morbid  vanity  —  that  brawl- 
begotten  child  of  struggling  self-conceit  and  self- 
disgust  —  was  vanishing  away ;  and  as  Mr.  Tenny- 
son says  in  one  of  those  priceless  idyls  of  his, 
before  which  the  shade  of  Theocritus  must  hide 
his  diminished  head,  — 

"He  was  altered,  and  began 

To  move  about  the  house  with  joy, 
And  with  the  certain  step  of  man." 


"Murder  will  out/'  and  Love  too     157 

He  had,  at  last,  found  one  person  who  could 
appreciate  him.  And  in  deliberate  confidence 
he  set  to  work  to  conquer  her,  and  make  her  his 
own.  It  was  a  traitorous  return,  but  a  very 
natural  one.  And  she,  sweet  creature!  walked 
straight  into  the  pleasant  snare,  utterly  blind, 
because  she  fancied  that  she  saw  clearly.  In  the 
pride  of  her  mysticism,  she  had  fancied  herself 
above  so  commonplace  a  passion  as  love.  It  was 
a  curious  feature  of  lower  humanity,  which  she 
might  investigate  and  analyze  harmlessly  as  a 
cold  scientific  spectator;  and,  in  her  mingled 
pride  and  purity,  she  used  to  indulge  Lancelot 
in  metaphysical  disquisitions  about  love  and 
beauty,  like  that  first  one  in  their  walk  home 
from  Minchampstead,  from  which  a  less  celestially 
innocent  soul  would  have  shrunk.  She  thought, 
forsooth,  as  the  old  proverb  says,  that  she  could 
deal  in  honey,  without  putting  her  hand  to  her 
mouth.  But  Lancelot  knew  better,  and  marked 
her  for  his  own.  And  daily  his  self-confidence 
and  sense  of  rightful  power  developed,  and  with 
them,  paradoxical  as  it  may  seem,  the  bitterest 
self-abasement.  The  contact  of  her  stainless  in- 
nocence, the  growing  certainty  that  the  destiny 
of  that  innocence  was  irrevocably  bound  up  with 
his  own,  made  him  shrink  from  her  whenever  he 
remembered  his  own  guilty  career.  To  remem- 
ber that  there  were  passages  in  it  which  she  must 
never  know  —  that  she  would  cast  him  from  her 
with  abhorrence  if  she  once  really  understood 
their  vileness!  To  think  that,  amid  all  the 
closest  bonds  of  love,  there  must  forever  be  an 
awful,  silent  gulf  in  the  past,  of  which  they  must 
never  speak !  —  That  she  would  bring  to  him  what 


1 5  8  Yeast 

he  could  never,  never  bring  to  her !  —  The 
thought  was  unbearable.  And  as  hideous  recol- 
lections used  to  rise  before  him,  devilish  carica- 
tures of  his  former  self,  mopping  and  mowing  at 
him  in  his  dreams,  he  would  start  from  his  lonely 
bed,  and  pace  the  room  for  hours,  or  saddle  his 
horse,  and  ride  all  night  long  aimlessly  through 
the  awful  woods,  vainly  trying  to  escape  himself. 
How  gladly,  at  those  moments,  he  would  have 
welcomed  centuries  of  a  material  hell,  to  escape 
from  the  more  awful  spiritual  hell  within  him,  — 
to  buy  back  that  pearl  of  innocence  which  he  had 
cast  recklessly  to  be  trampled  under  the  feet  of 
his  own  swinish  passions !  But,  no;  that  which 
was  done  could  never  be  undone,  —  never,  to 
all  eternity.  And  more  than  once,  as  he  wandered 
restlessly  from  one  room  to  another,  the  barrels 
of  his  pistols  seemed  to  glitter  with  a  cold, 
devilish  smile,  and  call  to  him: 

"Come  to  us!  and  with  one  touch  of  your 
finger,  send  that  bursting  spirit  which  throbs 
against  your  brow  to  flit  forth  free,  and  never- 
more to  defile  her  purity  by  your  presence!" 

But  no,  again :  a  voice  within  seemed  to  com- 
mand him  to  go  on,  and  claim  her,  and  win  her, 
spite  of  his  own  vileness.  And  in  after  years, 
slowly,  and  in  fear  and  trembling,  he  knew  it  for 
the  voice  of  God,  who  had  been  leading  him  to 
become  worthy  of  her  through  that  bitter  shame 
of  his  own  unworthiness. 

As  One  higher  than  they  would  have  it,  she 
took  a  fancy  to  read  Homer  in  the  original,  and 
Lancelot  could  do  no  less  than  offer  his  services 
as  translator.  She  would  prepare  for  him  portions 
of  the  Odyssey,  and  every  day  that  he  came  up  to 


"Murder  will  out,"  and  Love  too     159 

the  Priory  he  used  to  comment  on  it  to  her;  and  so 
for  many  a  week,  in  the  dark  wainscoted  library, 
and  in  the  clipt  yew-alleys  of  the  old  gardens, 
and  under  the  brown  autumn  trees,  they  quarried 
together  in  that  unexhausted  mine,  among  the 
records  of  the  rich  Titan-youth  of  man.  And 
step  by  step  Lancelot  opened  to  her  the  everlast- 
ing significance  of  the  poem;  the  unconscious 
purity  which  lingers  in  it,  like  the  last  rays  of 
the  Paradise  dawn;  its  sense  of  the  dignity  of 
man  as  man ;  the  religious  reverence  with  which 
it  speaks  of  all  human  ties,  human  strength  and 
beauty  —  ay,  even  of  merely  animal  human  appe- 
tites, as  God-given  and  God-like  symbols.  She 
could  not  but  listen  and  admire,  when  he  intro- 
duced her  to  the  sheer  paganism  of  Schiller's 
Gods  of  Greece;  for  on  this  subject  he  was  more 
eloquent  than  on  any.  He  had  gradually,  in 
fact,  as  we  have  seen,  dropped  all  faith  in  any- 
thing but  Nature;  the  slightest  fact  about  a  bone 
or  a  weed  was  more  important  to  him  than  all 
the  books  of  divinity  which  Argemone  lent  him 
—  to  be  laid  by  unread. 

"  What  do  you  believe  in  ? "  she  asked  him  one 
day,  sadly. 

"In  this!"  he  said,  stamping  his  foot  on  the 
ground.  "  In  the  earth  I  stand  on,  and  the 
things  I  see  walking  and  growing  on  it.  There 
may  be  something  beside  it  —  what  you  call  a 
spiritual  world.  But  if  He  who  made  me  intended 
me  to  think  of  spirit  first,  He  would  have  let  me 
see  it  first.  But  as  He  has  given  me  material 
senses,  and  put  me  in  a  material  world,  I  take  it 
as  a  fair  hint  that  I  am  meant  to  use  those  senses 
first,  whatever  may  come  after.  I  may  be  intended 


160  Yeast 

to  understand  the  unseen  world,  but  if  so,  it  must 
be,  as  I  suspect,  by  understanding  the  visible 
one:  and  there  are  enough  wonders  there  to 
occupy  me  for  some  time  to  come." 

"But  the  Bible?"  (Argemone  had  given  up 
long  ago  wasting  words  about  the  "Church.") 

"  My  only  Bible  as  yet  is  Bacon.  I  know  that 
he  is  right,  whoever  is  wrong.  If  that  Hebrew 
Bible  is  to  be  believed  by  me,  it  must  agree  with 
what  I  know  already  from  science. " 

What  was  to  be  done  with  so  intractable  a 
heretic?  Call  him  an  infidel  and  a  materialist, 
of  course,  and  cast  him  off  with  horror.  But 
Argemone  was  beginning  to  find  out  that,  when 
people  are  really  in  earnest,  it  may  be  better 
sometimes  to  leave  God's  methods  of  educating 
them  alone,  instead  of  calling  the  poor  honest 
seekers  hard  names,  which  the  speakers  them- 
selves don't  understand. 

But  words  would  fail  sometimes,  and  in  default 
of  them  Lancelot  had  recourse  to  drawings,  and 
manifested  in  them  a  talent  for  thinking  in  visible 
forms  which  put  the  climax  to  all  Argemone's 
wonder.  A  single  profile,  even  a  mere  mathe- 
matical figure,  would,  in  his  hands,  become  the 
illustration  of  a  spiritual  truth.  And,  in  time, 
every  fresh  lesson  on  the  Odyssey  was  accom- 
panied by  its  illustration,  —  some  bold  and  simple 
outline  drawing.  In  Argemone's  eyes,  the 
sketches  were  immaculate  and  inspired ;  for  their 
chief,  almost  their  only  fault,  was  just  those 
mere  anatomical  slips  which  a  woman  would 
hardly  perceive,  provided  the  forms  were  generally 
graceful  and  bold. 

One  day  his  fancy  attempted  a  bolder  flight. 


"  Murder  will  out,"  and  Love  too     1 6 1 

He  brought  a  large  pen-and-ink  drawing,  and 
laying  it  silently  on  the  table  before  her,  fixed 
his  eyes  intensely  on  her  face.  The  sketch  was 
labelled  the  "Triumph  of  Woman."  In  the 
foreground,  to  the  right  and  left,  were  scattered 
groups  of  men,  in  the  dresses  and  insignia  of 
every  period  and  occupation.  The  distance 
showed,  in  a  few  bold  outlines,  a  dreary  desert, 
broken  by  alpine  ridges,  and  furrowed  here  and 
there  by  a  wandering  watercourse.  Long  shadows 
pointed  to  the  half-risen  sun,  whose  disc  was 
climbing  above  the  waste  horizon.  And  in  front 
of  the  sun,  down  the  path  of  the  morning  beams, 
came  Woman,  clothed  only  in  the  armor  of  her 
own  loveliness.  Her  bearing  was  stately,  and 
yet  modest;  in  her  face  pensive  tenderness 
seemed  wedded  with  earnest  joy.  In  her  right 
hand  lay  a  cross,  the  emblem  of  self-sacrifice. 
Her  path  across  the  desert  was  marked  by  the 
flowers  which  sprang  up  beneath  her  steps;  the 
wild  gazelle  stept  forward  trustingly  to  lick  her1 
hand ;  a  single  wandering  butterfly  fluttered  round 
her  head.  As  the  group,  one  by  one,  caught 
sight  of  her,  a  human  tenderness  and  intelligence 
seemed  to  light  up  every  face.  The  scholar  dropt 
his  book,  the  miser  his  gold,  the  savage  his 
weapons ;  even  in  the  visage  of  the  half-slumber- 
ing sot  some  nobler  recollection  seemed  wistfully 
to  struggle  into  life.  The  artist  caught  up  his 
pencil,  the  poet  his  lyre,  with  eyes  that  beamed 
forth  sudden  inspiration.  The  sage,  whose  broad 
brow  rose  above  the  group  like  some  torrent-fur- 
rowed Alp,  scathed  with  all  the  temptations  and 
all  the  sorrows  of  his  race,  watched  with  a 
thoughtful  smile  that  preacher  more  mighty  than 


1 62  Yeast 

himself.  A  youth,  decked  out  in  the  most  fan- 
tastic fopperies  of  the  middle  age,  stood  with 
clasped  hands  and  brimming  eyes,  as  remorse 
and  pleasure  struggled  in  his  face;  and  as  he 
looked,  the  fierce  sensual  features  seemed  to 
melt,  and  his  flesh  came  again  to  him  like  the 
flesh  of  a  little  child.  The  slave  forgot  his 
fetters;  little  children  clapped  their  hands;  and 
the  toil-worn,  stunted,  savage  woman  sprung  for- 
ward to  kneel  at  her  feet,  and  see  herself 
transfigured  in  that  new  and  divine  ideal  of  her 
sex. 

Descriptions  of  drawings  are  clumsy  things  at 
best;  the  reader  must  fill  up  the  sketch  for  him- 
self by  the  eye  of  faith. 

Entranced  in  wonder  and  pleasure,  Argemone 
let  her  eyes  wander  over  the  drawing.  And  her 
feelings  for  Lancelot  amounted  almost  to  wor- 
ship, as  she  apprehended  the  harmonious  unity 
of  the  manifold  conception,  —  the  rugged  bold- 
ness of  the  groups  in  front,  the  soft  grandeur  of 
the  figure  which  was  the  lodestar  of  all  their 
emotions  —  the  virginal  purity  of  the  whole. 
And  when  she  fancied  that  she  traced  in  those 
bland  aquiline  lineaments,  and  in  the  crisp  ring- 
lets which  floated  like  a  cloud  down  to  the  knees 
of  her  figure,  some  traces  of  her  own  likeness,  a 
dream  of  a  new  destiny  flitted  before  her,  —  she 
blushed  to  her  very  neck;  and  as  she  bent  her 
face  over  the  drawing  and  gazed,  her  whole  soul 
seemed  to  rise  into  her  eyes,  and  a  single  tear 
dropped  upon  the  paper.  She  laid  her  hand  over 
it,  and  then  turned  hastily  away. 

"You  do  not  like  it!  I  have  been  too  bold," 
said  Lancelot,  fearfully. 


"Murder  will  out,"  and  Love  too     163 

"  Oh,  no !  no !  It  is  so  beautiful  —  so  full  of 

deep  wisdom !  But  —  but You  may  leave 

it." 

Lancelot  slipped  silently  out  of  the  room,  he 
hardly  knew  why;  and  when  he  was  gone,  Arge- 
mone  caught  up  the  drawing,  pressed  it  to  her 
bosom,  covered  it  with  kisses,  and  hid  it,  as  too 
precious  for  any  eyes  but  her  own,  in  the  farthest 
corner  of  her  secretaire. 

And  yet  she  fancied  that  she  was  not  in  love ! 

The  vicar  saw  the  growth  of  this  intimacy  with 
a  fast-lengthening  face;  for  it  was  very  evident 
that  Argemone  could  not  serve  two  masters  so 
utterly  contradictory  as  himself  and  Lancelot, 
and  that  either  the  lover  or  the  father-confessor 
must  speedily  resign  office.  The  vicar  had  had 
great  disadvantages,  by  the  by,  in  fulfilling  the 
latter  function;  for  his  visits  at  the  Priory  had 
been  all  but  forbidden ;  and  Argemone' s  "  spiritual 
state"  had  been  directed  by  means  of  a  secret 
correspondence,  —  a  method  which  some  clergy- 
men, and  some  young  ladies  too,  have  discovered, 
in  the  last  few  years,  to  be  quite  consistent  with 
moral  delicacy  and  filial  obedience.  John  Bull, 
like  a  stupid  fellow  as  he  is,  has  still  his  doubts 
upon  the  point;  but  he  should  remember  that 
though  St.  Paul  tells  women  when  they  want 
advice  to  ask  their  husbands  at  home,  yet  if  the 
poor  woman  has  no  husband,  or,  as  often  happens, 
her  husband's  advice  is  unpleasant,  to  whom  is  she 
to  go  but  to  the  next  best  substitute,  her  spiritual 
cicisbeo,  or  favorite  clergyman  ?  In  sad  earnest, 
neither  husband  nor  parent  deserves  pity  in  the 
immense  majority  of  such  cases.  Woman  will 
have  guidance.  It  is  her  delight  and  glory  to  be 


1 64  Yeast 

led;  and  if  her  husband  or  her  parents  will  not 
meet  the  cravings  of  her  intellect,  she  must  go 
elsewhere  to  find  a  teacher,  and  run  into  the 
wildest  extravagances  of  private  judgment,  in  the 
very  hope  of  getting  rid  of  it,  just  as  poor  Arge- 
mone  had  been  led  to  do. 

And,  indeed,  she  had,  of  late,  wandered  into 
very  strange  paths:  would  to  God  they  were  as 
uncommon  as  strange!  Both  she  and  the  vicar 
had  a  great  wish  that  she  should  lead  a  "  devoted 
life ; "  but  then  they  both  disdained  to  use  com- 
mon means  for  their  object.  The  good  old  Eng- 
lish plan  of  district  visiting,  by  which  ladies  can 
have  mercy  on  the  bodies  and  souls  of  those 
below  them,  without  casting  off  the  holy  dis- 
cipline which  a  home,  even  the  most  ungenial, 
alone  supplies,  savored  too  much  of  mere  "  Protes- 
tantism." It  might  be  God's  plan  for  Christian- 
izing England  just  now,  but  that  was  no  reason, 
alas !  for  its  being  their  plan :  they  wanted  some- 
thing more  "Catholic,"  more  in  accordance  with 
Church  principles  (for,  indeed,  is  it  not  the 
business  of  the  Church  to  correct  the  errors  of 
Providence ! ) ;  and  what  they  sought  they  found 
at  once  in  a  certain  favorite  establishment  of  the 
vicar's,  a  Church-of-England  btguinage,  or  quasi- 
Protestant  nunnery,  which  he  fostered  in  a  neigh- 
boring city,  and  went  thither  on  all  high  tides  to 
confess  the  young  ladies,  who  were  in  all  things 
nuns,  but  bound  by  no  vows,  except,  of  course, 
such  as  they  might  choose  to  make  for  themselves 
in  private. 

Here  they  labored  among  the  lowest  haunts  of 
misery  and  sin,  piously  and  self-denyingly  enough, 
sweet  souls!  in  hope  of  "the  peculiar  crown," 


"Murder  will  out,"  and  Love  too     165 

and  a  higher  place  in  heaven  than  the  relations 
whom  they  had  left  behind  them  "in  the  world," 
and  unshackled  by  the  interference  of  parents, 
and  other  such  merely  fleshly  relationships, 
which,  as  they  cannot  have  been  instituted  by 
God  merely  to  be  trampled  under  foot  on  the 
path  to  holiness,  and  cannot  well  have  instituted 
themselves  (unless,  after  all,  the  materialists  are 
right,  and  this  world  does  grind  of  itself,  except 
when  its  Maker  happens  to  interfere  once  every 
thousand  years),  must  needs  have  been  instituted 
by  the  devil.  And  so  more  than  one  girl  in  that 
nunnery,  and  out  of  it,  too,  believed  in  her 
inmost  heart,  though  her  "Catholic  principles," 
by  a  happy  inconsistency,  forbade  her  to  say 
so. 

In  a  moment  of  excitement,  fascinated  by  the 
romance  of  the  notion,  Argemone  had  proposed 
to  her  mother  to  allow  her  to  enter  this  beguinage, 
and  called  in  the  vicar  as  advocate;  which  pro- 
duced a  correspondence  between  him  and  Mrs. 
Lavington,  stormy  on  her  side,  provokingly  calm 
on  his:  and  when  the  poor  lady,  tired  of  raging, 
had  descended  to  an  affecting  appeal  to  his 
human  sympathies,  entreating  him  to  spare  a 
mother's  feelings,  he  had  answered  with  the  same 
impassive  fanaticism,  that  "he  was  surprised  at 
her  putting  a  mother's  selfish  feelings  in  compe- 
tition with  the  sanctity  of  her  child,"  and  that 
"  had  his  own  daughter  shown  such  a  desire  for  a 
higher  vocation,  he  should  have  esteemed  it  the 
very  highest  honor;"  to  which  Mrs.  Lavington 
answered,  naively  enough,  that  "  it  depended  very 
much  on  what  his  daughter  was  like."  —  So  he 
was  all  but  forbidden  the  house.  Nevertheless 


1 66  Yeast 

he  contrived,  by  means  of  this  same  secret  corre- 
spondence, to  keep  alive  in  Argemone's  mind  the 
longing  to  turn  nun,  and  fancied  honestly  that 
he  was  doing  God  service,  while  he  was  pamper- 
ing the  poor  girl's  lust  for  singularity  and  self- 
glorification. 

But,  lately,  Argemone's  letters  had  become 
less  frequent  and  less  confiding;  and  the  vicar, 
who  well  knew  the  reason,  had  resolved  to  bring 
the  matter  to  a  crisis. 

So  he  wrote  earnestly  and  peremptorily  to  his 
pupil,  urging  her,  with  all  his  subtle  and  refined 
eloquence,  to  make  a  final  appeal  to  her  mother, 
and  if  that  failed,  to  act  "as  her  conscience 
should  direct  her;"  and  enclosed  an  answer  from 
the  superior  of  the  convent,  to  a  letter  which 
Argemone  had  in  a  mad  moment  asked  him  to 
write.  The  superior's  letter  spoke  of  Argemone's 
joining  her  as  a  settled  matter,  and  of  her  room 
as  ready  for  her,  while  it  lauded  to  the  skies  the 
peaceful  activity  and  usefulness  of  the  establish- 
ment. This  letter  troubled  Argemone  exceed- 
ingly. She  had  never  before  been  compelled  to 
face  her  own  feelings,  either  about  the  nunnery 
or  about  Lancelot.  She  had  taken  up  the  fancy 
of  becoming  a  Sister  of  Charity,  not  as  Honoria 
might  have  done,  from  genuine  love  of  the  poor, 
but  from  "a  sense  of  duty."  Almsgiving  and 
visiting  the  sick  were  one  of  the  methods  of  earn- 
ing heaven  prescribed  by  her  new  creed.  She 
was  ashamed  of  her  own  laziness  by  the  side  of 
Honoria's  simple  benevolence;  and,  sad  though 
it  may  be  to  have  to  say  it,  she  longed  to  outdo 
her  by  some  signal  act  of  self-sacrifice.  She  had 
looked  to  this  nunnery,  too,  as  an  escape,  once 


"  Murder  will  out,"  and  Love  too     1 67 

and  for  all,  from  her  own  luxury,  just  as  people 
who  have  not  strength  to  be  temperate  take 
refuge  in  teetotahsm ;  and  the  thought  of  menial 
services  towards  the  poor,  however  distasteful  to 
her,  came  in  quite  prettily  to  fill  up  the  little 
ideal  of  a  life  of  romantic  asceticisms  and  mystic 
contemplation,  which  gave  the  true  charm  in  her 
eyes  to  her  wild  project.  But  now  —  just  as  a  field 
had  opened  to  her  cravings  after  poetry  and  art, 
wider  and  richer  than  she  had  ever  imagined  — 
just  as  those  simple  childlike  views  of  man  and 
nature,  which  she  had  learnt  to  despise,  were 
assuming  an  awful  holiness  in  her  eyes  —  just  as 
she  had  found  a  human  soul  to  whose  regenera- 
tion she  could  devote  all  her  energies,  — to  be 
required  to  give  all  up,  perhaps  forever  (and  she 
felt  that  if  at  all,  it  ought  to  be  forever) ;  —  it 
was  too  much  for  her  little  heart  to  bear;  and 
she  cried  bitterly;  and  tried  to  pray,  and  could 
not;  and  longed  for  a  strong  and  tender  bosom 
on  which  to  lay  her  head,  and  pour  out  all  her 
doubts  and  struggles ;  and  there  was  none.  Her 
mother  did  not  understand  —  hardly  loved  her. 
Honoria  loved  her,  but  understood  her  even  less 
than  her  mother.  Pride  —  the  pride  of  intellect, 
the  pride  of  self-will  —  had  long  since  sealed  her 
lips  to  her  own  family.  .  .  . 

And  then,  out  of  the  darkness  of  her  heart, 
Lancelot's  image  rose  before  her  stronger  than 
all,  tenderer  than  all ;  and  as  she  remembered  his 
magical  faculty  of  anticipating  all  her  thoughts, 
embodying  for  her  all  her  vague  surmises,  he 
seemed  to  beckon  her  towards  him.  —  She  shud- 
dered and  turned  away.  And  now  she  first  be- 
came conscious  how  he  had  haunted  her  thoughts 


1 68  Yeast 

in  the  last  few  months,  not  as  a  soul  to  be  saved, 
but  as  a  living  man  —  his  face,  his  figure,  his 
voice,  his  every  gesture  and  expression,  rising 
clear  before  her,  in  spite  of  herself,  by  day  and 
night. 

And  then  she  thought  of  his  last  drawing,  and 
the  looks  which  had  accompanied  it,  —  unmistak- 
able looks  of  passionate  and  adoring  love.  There 
was  no  denying  it  —  she  had  always  known  that 
he  loved  her,  but  she  had  never  dared  to  confess 
it  to  herself.  But  now  the  earthquake  was  come, 
and  all  the  secrets  of  her  heart  burst  upward  to 
the  light,  and  she  faced  the  thought  in  shame 
and  terror.  "How  unjust  I  have  been  to  him! 
how  cruel!  thus  to  entice  him  on  in  hopeless 
love!" 

She  lifted  up  her  eyes,  and  saw  in  the  mirror 
opposite  the  reflection  of  her  own  exquisite 
beauty. 

"I  could  have  known  what  I  was  doing!  I 
knew  all  the  while!  And  yet  it  is  so  delicious 
to  feel  that  any  one  loves  me !  Is  it  selfishness  ? 
It  is  selfishness,  to  pamper  my  vanity  on  an  affec- 
tion which  I  do  not,  will  not  return.  I  will  not 
be  thus  in  debt  to  him,  even  for  his  love.  I  do 
not  love  him  —  I  do  not ;  and  even  if  I  did,  to 
give  myself  up  to  a  man  of  whom  I  know  so  little, 
who  is  not  even  a  Christian,  much  less  a  Church- 
man !  Ay !  and  to  give  up  my  will  to  any  man ! 
to  become  the  subject,  the  slave,  of  another 
human  being !  I,  who  have  worshipped  the  belief 
in  woman's  independence,  the  hope  of  woman's 
enfranchisement,  who  have  felt  how  glorious  it 
is  to  live  like  the  angels,  single  and  self-sus- 
tained !  What  if  I  cut  the  Gordian  knot,  and 


"  Murder  will  out,"  and  Love  too     1 69 

here  make,  once  for  all,  a  vow  of  perpetual 
celibacy  ? " 

She  flung  herself  on  her  knees  —  she  could  not 
collect  her  thoughts. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  am  not  prepared  for  this. 
It  is  too  solemn  to  be  undertaken  in  this  miser- 
able whirlwind  of  passion.  I  will  fast,  and  medi- 
tate, and  go  up  formally  to  the  little  chapel,  and 
there  devote  myself  to  God;  and,  in  the  mean- 
time, to  write  at  once  to  the  superior  of  the 
b/guines ;  to  go  to  my  mother,  and  tell  her  once 

for  all What?     Must  I  lose  him?  —  must  I 

give  him  up?  Not  his  love  —  I  cannot  give  up 
that  —  would  that  I  could  !  but  no  !  he  will  love 
me  forever.  I  know  it  as  well  as  if  an  angel  told 
me.  But  to  give  up  him !  Never  to  see  him ! 
never  to  hear  his  voice !  never  to  walk  with  him 
among  the  beech  woods  any  more!  Oh,  Arge- 
mone !  Argemone !  miserable  girl !  and  is  it  come 
to  this? "  And  she  threw  herself  on  the  sofa,  and 
hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  i 

Yes,  Argemone,  it  is  come  to  this;  and  the 
best  thing  you  can  do,  is  just  what  you  are  doing 
—  to  lie  there  and  cry  yourself  to  sleep,  while  the 
angels  are  laughing  kindly  (if  a  solemn  public, 
who  settles  everything  for  them,  will  permit  them 
to  laugh)  at  the  rickety  old  windmill  of  sham- 
Popery  which  you  have  taken  for  a  real  giant. 

At  that  same  day  and  hour,  as  it  chanced, 
Lancelot,  little  dreaming  what  the  said  windmill 
was  grinding  for  him,  was  scribbling  a  hasty  and 
angry  answer  to  a  letter  of  Luke's,  which,  per- 
haps, came  that  very  morning  in  order  to  put  him 
into  a  proper  temper  for  the  demolishing  of 
windmills.  It  ran  thus: 


170  Yeast 

.    "  Ay,  my  good  Cousin,  so  I  expected 

"  Suave  mari  magno  turbantibus  aequora  ventis 
E  terra  magnum  alterius  spectare  laborem  .  .  . 

Pleasant  and  easy  for  you  Protestants  (for  I  will  call  you 
what  you  are,  in  spite  of  your  own  denials,  a  truly  con- 
sistent and  logical  Protestant  —  and  therefore  a  Material- 
ist) —  easy  for  you,  I  say,  to  sit  on  the  shore,  in  cold, 
cruel  self-satisfaction,  and  tell  the  poor  wretch  buffeting 
with  the  waves  what  he  ought  to  do  while  he  is  choking 
and  drowning.  .  .  .  Thank  Heaven,  the  storm  has 
stranded  me  upon  the  everlasting  Rock  of  Peter ;  —  but 
it  has  been  a  sore  trouble  to  reach  it.  Protestants,  who 
look  at  creeds  as  things  to  be  changed  like  coats,  when- 
ever they  seem  not  to  fit  them,  little  know  what  we 
Catholic-hearted  ones  suffer.  ...  If  they  did,  they 
would  be  more  merciful  and  more  chary  in  the  require- 
ments of  us,  just  as  we  are  in  the  very  throe  of  a  new- 
born existence.  The  excellent  man,  to  whose  care  I 
have  committed  myself,  has  a  wise  and  a  tender  heart 
...  he  saw  no  harm  in  my  concealing  from  my  father 
the  spiritual  reason  of  my  giving  up  my  curacy  (for  I 
have  given  it  up),  and  only  giving  the  outward,  but 
equally  true  reason,  that  I  found  it  on  the  whole  an 
ineligible  and  distressing  post.  ...  I  know  you  will 
apply  to  such  an  act  that  disgusting  monosyllable  of 
which  Protestants  are  so  fond.  He  felt  with  me  and  for 
me  —  for  my  horror  of  giving  pain  to  my  father,  and  for 
my  wearied  and  excited  state  of  mind ;  and  strangely 
enough  —  to  show  how  differently,  according  to  the 
difference  of  the  organs,  the  same  object  may  appear  to 
two  people  —  he  quoted  in  my  favor  that  very  verse 
which  you  wrest  against  me.  He  wished  me  to  show 
my  father  that  I  had  only  changed  my  heaven,  and  not 
my  character,  by  becoming  an  Ultramontane-Catholic 
.  .  .  that,  as  far  as  his  esteem  and  affection  were  founded 


"Murder  will  out,"  and  Love  too     171 

on  anything  in  me,  the  ground  of  it  did  not  vanish  with 
my  conversion.  If  I  had  told  him  at  once  of  my  altered 
opinions,  he  would  have  henceforth  viewed  every  word 
and  action  with  a  prejudiced  eye.  .  .  .  Protestants  are 
so  bigoted  .  .  .  but  if,  after  seeing  me  for  a  month  or 
two  the  same  Luke  that  he  had  ever  known  me,  he  were 
gradually  informed  that  I  had  all  the  while  held  that 
creed  which  he  had  considered  incompatible  with  such 
a  life  as  I  hoped  mine  would  be  —  you  must  see  the 
effect  which  it  ought  to  have.  ...  I  don't  doubt  that 
you  will  complain  of  all  this.  .  .  .  All  I  can  say  is,  that  I 
cannot  sympathize  with  that  superstitious  reverence  for 
mere  verbal  truth,  which  is  so  common  among  Protes- 
tants. ...  It  seems  to  me  they  throw  away  the  spirit  of 
truth,  in  their  idolatry  of  its  letter.  For  instance,  — 
what  is  the  use  of  informing  a  man  of  a  true  fact  but  to 
induce  a  true  opinion  in  him?  But  if,  by  clinging  to 
the  exact  letter  of  the  fact,  you  create  a  false  opinion  in 
his  mind,  as  I  should  do  in  my  father's  case,  if  by  telling 
him  at  once  of  my  change,  I  gave  him  an  unjust  horror 
of  Catholicism,  — •  you  do  not  tell  him  the  truth.  .  .  . 
You  may  speak  what  is  true  to  you,  —  but  it  becomes  an 
error  when  received  into  his  mind.  ...  If  his  mind  is 
a  refracting  and  polarizing  medium  —  if  the  crystalline 
lens  of  his  soul's  eye  has  been  changed  into  tourmaline 
or  Labrador  spar  —  the  only  way  to  give  him  a  true 
image  of  the  fact,  is  to  present  it  to  him  already  properly 
altered  in  form,  and  adapted  to  suit  the  obliquity  of  his 
vision ;  in  order  that  the  very  refractive  power  of  his 
faculties  may,  instead  of  distorting  it,  correct  it,  and 
make  it  straight  for  him ;  and  so  a  verbal  wrong  in  fact 
may  possess  him  with  a  right  opinion.  .  .  . 

"  You  see  the  whole  question  turns  on  your  Protestant 
deification  of  the  intellect.  ...  If  you  really  believed, 
as  you  all  say  you  do,  that  the  nature  of  man,  and  there- 
fore his  intellect  among  the  rest,  was  utterly  corrupt,  you 


172  Yeast 

would  not  be  so  superstitiously  careful  to  tell  the  truth 
...  as  you  call  it ;  because  you  would  know  that  man's 
heart,  if  not  his  head,  would  needs  turn  the  truth  into  a 
lie  by  its  own  corruption.  .  .  .  The  proper  use  of  reason- 
ing is  to  produce  opinion,  —  and  if  the  subject  in  which 
you  wish  to  produce  the  opinion  is  diseased,  you  must 
adapt  the  medicine  accordingly." 

To  all  which  Lancelot,  with  several  strong 
curses,  scrawled  the  following  answer:  — 

"And  this  is  my  Cousin  Luke  ! — Well,  I  shall  believe 
henceforward  that  there  is,  after  all,  a  thousand  times 
greater  moral  gulf  fixed  between  Popery  and  Tractarian- 
ism,  than  between  Tractarianism  and  the  extremest  Prot- 
estantism. My  dear  fellow,  —  I  won't  bother  you,  by 
cutting  up  your  charming  ambiguous  middle  terms, 
which  make  reason  and  reasoning  identical,  or  your 
theory  that  the  office  of  reasoning  is  to  induce  opinions 
—  (the  devil  take  opinions,  right  or  wrong  —  I  want  facts, 
faith  in  real  facts  !)  — or  about  deifying  the  intellect  — 
as  if  all  sound  intellect  was  not  in  itself  divine  light — a 
revelation  to  man  of  absolute  laws  independent  of  him, 
as  the  very  heathens  hold.  But  this  I  will  do  —  thank 
you  most  sincerely  for  the  compliment  you  pay  us 
Cismontane  heretics.  We  do  retain  some  dim  belief 
in  a  God  —  even  I  am  beginning  to  believe  in  be- 
lieving in  Him.  And  therefore,  as  I  begin  to  suppose, 
it  is,  that  we  reverence  facts,  as  the  work  of  God,  His 
acted  words  and  will,  which  we  dare  not  falsify ;  which 
we  believe  will  tell  their  own  story  better  than  we  can 
tell  it  for  them.  If  our  eyes  are  dimmed,  we  think  it 
safer  to  clear  them,  which  do  belong  to  us,  than  to  be- 
devil, by  the  light  of  those  very  already  dimmed  eyes, 
the  objects  round,  which  do  not  belong  to  us.  Whether 
we  are  consistent  or  not  about  the  corruptness  of  man, 
we  are  about  the  incorruptness  of  God ;  and  therefore 


"Murder  will  out,"  and  Love  too     173 

about  that  of  the  facts  by  which  God  teaches  men :  and 
believe,  and  will  continue  to  believe,  that  the  blackest 
of  all  sins,  the  deepest  of  all  Atheisms,  that  which,  above 
all  things,  proves  no  faith  in  God's  government  of  the 
universe,  no  sense  of  His  presence,  no  understanding  of 
His  character,  is  —  a  lie. 

"  One  word  more  —  Unless  you  tell  your  father  within 
twenty-four  hours  after  receiving  this  letter,  I  will.  And 
I,  being  a  Protestant  (if  cursing  Popery  means  Protes- 
tantism), mean  what  I  say." 

As  Lancelot  walked  up  to  the  Priory  that 
morning,  the  Reverend  Panurgus  O'Blareaway 
dashed  out  of  a  cottage  by  the  roadside,  and  seized 
him  unceremoniously  by  the  shoulders.  He  was 
a  specimen  of  humanity  which  Lancelot  could  not 
help  at  once  liking  and  despising;  a  quaint  mix- 
ture of  conceit  and  earnestness,  uniting  the 
shrewdness  of  a  stockjobber  with  the  frolic  of 
a  schoolboy  broke  loose.  He  was  rector  of  a 
place  in  the  west  of  Ireland,  containing  some 
ten  Protestants  and  some  thousand  Papists. 
Being,  unfortunately  for  himself,  a  red-hot 
Orangeman,  he  had  thought  fit  to  quarrel  with 
the  priest,  in  consequence  of  which  he  found 
himself  deprived  both  of  tithes  and  congregation; 
and  after  receiving  three  or  four  Rockite  letters, 
and  a  charge  of  slugs  through  his  hat  (of  which 
he  always  talked  as  if  being  shot  at  was  the  most 
pleasant  and  amusing  feature  of  Irish  life),  he 
repaired  to  England,  and  there,  after  trying  to 
set  up  as  popular  preacher  in  London,  declaim- 
ing at  Exeter  Hall,  and  writing  for  all  the  third- 
rate  magazines,  found  himself  incumbent  of 
Lower  Whitford.  He  worked  there,  as  he  said 
himself,  "like  a  horse;"  spent  his  mornings  in 


1 74  Yeast 

the  schools,  his  afternoons  in  the  "cotfages; 
preached  four  or  five  extempore  sermons  every 
week  to  overflowing  congregations ;  took  the  lead, 
by  virtue  of  the  "gift  of  the  gab,"  at  all  "reli- 
gious" meetings  for  ten  miles  round;  and  really 
did  a  great  deal  of  good  in  his  way.  He  had  an 
unblushing  candor  about  his  own  worldly  ambi- 
tion, with  a  tremendous  brogue ;  and  prided  him- 
self on  exaggerating  deliberately  both  of  these 
excellences. 

"The  top  of  the  morning  to  ye,  Mr.  Smith.  Ye 
haven't  such  a  thing  as  a  cegar  about  ye?  I  *ve 
been  preaching  to  school-children  till  me  throat 's 
as  dry  as  the  slave  of  a  lime-burner's  coat." 

"I  am  very  sorry;  but,  really,  I  have  left  my 
case  at  home." 

"  Oh !  ah !  faix  and  I  forgot  Ye  must  n't  be 
smokin'  the  nasty  things  going  up  to  the  castle. 
Och,  Mr.  Smith,  but  you're  the  lucky  man!" 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  the  compli- 
ment," said  Lancelot,  gruffly;  "but  really  I  don't 
see  how  I  deserve  it. " 

"  Desarve  it !  Sure  luck  's  all,  and  that 's  your 
luck,  and  not  your  deserts  at  all.  To  have  the 
handsomest  girl  in  the  county  dying  for  love  of 
ye "  (Panurgus  had  a  happy  knack  of  blurting 
out  truths  —  when  they  were  pleasant  ones). 
"And  she  just  the  beautifulest  creature  that 
ever  spilte  shoe-leather,  barring  Lady  Philandria 
Mountflunkey,  of  Castle  Mountflunkey,  Quane's 
County,  that  shall  be  nameless." 

"Upon  my  word,  O'Blareaway,  you  seem  to  be 
better  acquainted  with  my  matters  than  I  am. 
Don't  you  think,  on  the  whole,  it  might  be  better 
to  mind  your  own  business? " 


"Murder  will  out,'*  and  Love  too     175 

"  Me  own  business !  Poker  o'  Moses !  and 
ain't  it  me  own  business  ?  Have  n't  ye  spilte  my 
tenderest  hopes?  And  good  luck  to  ye  in  that 
same,  for  ye  're  as  pretty  a  rider  as  ever  kicked 
coping-stones  out  of  a  wall ;  and  poor  Paddy  loves 
a  sportsman  by  nature.  Och !  but  ye  've  got  a 
hand  of  trumps  this  time.  Didn't  I  mate  the 
vicar  the  other  day,  and  spake  my  mind  to 
him?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Lancelot,  with 
a  strong  expletive. 

"Faix,  I  told  him  he  might  as  well  Faugh  a 
ballagh  —  make  a  rid  road,  and  get  out  of  that, 
with  his  bowings  and  his  crossings,  and  his 
Popery  made  asy  for  small  minds,  for  there  was 
a  gun  a-field  that  would  wipe  his  eye,  —  maning 
yourself,  ye  Prathestant. " 

"All  I  can  say  is,  that  you  had  really  better 
mind  your  own  business,  and  I  '11  mind  my  own." 

"Och,"  said  the  good-natured  Irishman,  "and 
it 's  you  must  mind  my  business,  and  I'll  mind 
yours;  and  that 's  all  fair  and  aqual.  Ye  've  cut 
me  out  intirely  at  the  Priory,  ye  Tory,  and  so 
ye  're  bound  to  give  me  a  lift  somehow.  Could  n't 
ye  look  me  out  a  fine  fat  widow,  with  an  illigant 
little  fortune?  For  what's  England  made  for 
except  to  find  poor  Paddy  a  wife  and  money? 
Ah,  ye  may  laugh,  but  I  'd  buy  me  a  chapel  at 
the  West  End :  me  talents  are  thrown  away  here 
intirely,  wasting  me  swateness  on  the  desert  air, 
as  Tom  Moore  says  "  (Panurgus  used  to  attribute 
all  quotations  whatsoever  to  Irish  geniuses) ;  "  and 
I  flatter  meself  I  'm  the  boy  to  shute  the  Gospel 
to  the  aristocracy. " 

Lancelot   burst   into  a  roar  of   laughter,   and 


1 76  Yeast 

escaped  over  the  next  gate:  but  the  Irishman's 
coarse 'hints  stuck  by  him  as  they  were  intended 
to  do.  "  Dying  for  the  love  of  me  ! "  He  knew 
it  was  an  impudent  exaggeration,  but,  somehow, 
it  gave  him  confidence;  "there  is  no  smoke," 
he  thought,  "  without  fire. "  And  his  heart  beat 
high  with  new  hopes,  for  which  he  laughed  at 
himself  all  the  while.  It  was  just  the  cordial 
which  he  needed.  That  conversation  determined 
the  history  of  his  life. 

He  met  Argemone  that  morning  in  the  library, 
as  usual;  but  he  soon  found  that  she  was  not 
thinking  of  Homer.  She  was  moody  and  ab- 
stracted; and  he  could  not  help  at  last  saying: 
"  I  am  afraid  I  and  my  classics  are  de  trop  this 
morning,  Miss  Lavington." 

"  Oh,  no,  no.     Never  that. "     She  turned  away 
her  head.     He  fancied  that  it  was  to  hide  a  tear. 

Suddenly  she  rose,  and  turned  to  him  with  a 
clear,  calm,  gentle  gaze. 

"Listen  to  me,  Mr.  Smith.  We  must  part 
to-day,  and  forever.  This  intimacy  has  gone 
on  —  too  long,  I  am  afraid,  for  your  happiness. 
And  now,  like  all  pleasant  things  in  this  miser- 
able world,  it  must  cease.  I  cannot  tell  you 
why ;  but  you  will  trust  me.  I  thank  you  for  it 
—  I  thank  God  for  it.  I  have  learnt  things  from 
it  which  I  shall  never  forget.  I  have  learnt,  at 
least  from  it,  to  esteem  and  honor  you.  You 
have  vast  powers.  Nothing,  nothing,  I  believe, 
is  too  high  for  you  to  attempt  and  succeed.  But 
we  must  part;  and  now,  God  be  with  you.  Oh, 
that  you  would  but  believe  that  these  glorious 
talents  are  His  loan !  That  you  would  but  be  a 
true  and  loyal  knight  to  Him  who  said  — '  Learn 


"Murder  will  out,"  and  Love  too     177 

of  me,  for  I  am  meek  and  lowly  of  heart,  and  ye 
shall  find  rest  unto  your  souls  ! '  — Ay,"  she  went 
on,  more  and  more  passionately,  for  she  felt  that 
not  she,  but  One  mightier  than  herself  was 
speaking  through  her,  "then  you  might  be  great 
indeed.  Then  I  might  watch  your  name  from 
afar,  rising  higher  and  higher  daily  in  the  ranks 
of  God's  own  heroes.  I  see  it  —  and  you  have 
taught  me  to  see  it  —  that  you  are  meant  for  a 
faith  nobler  and  deeper  than  all  doctrines  and 
systems  can  give.  You  must  become  the  phi- 
losopher, who  can  discover  new  truths  —  the 
artist  who  can  embody  them  in  new  forms,  while 

poor  I And  that  is  another  reason  why  we 

should  part.  —  Hush !  hear  me  out.  I  must  not 
be  a  clog,  to  drag  you  down  in  your  course.  Take 
this,  and  farewell;  and  remember  that  you  onoe 
had  a  friend  called  Argemone." 

She  put  into  his  hands  a  little  Bible.  He  took 
it,  and  laid  it  down  on  the  table. 

For  a  minute  he  stood  silent  and  rooted  to  the 
spot.  Disappointment,  shame,  rage,  hatred,  all 
boiled  up  madly  within  him.  The  bitterest 
insults  rose  to  his  lips  — "  Flirt,  cold-hearted 
pedant,  fanatic ! "  but  they  sank  again  unspoken, 
as  he  looked  into  the  celestial  azure  of  those 
eyes,  calm  and  pure  as  a  soft  evening  sky.  A 
mighty  struggle  between  good  and  evil  shook  his 
heart  to  the  roots;  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  his  soul  breathed  out  one  real  prayer,  that 
God  would  help  him  now  or  never  to  play  the 
man.  And  in  a  moment  the  darkness  passed ;  a 
new  spirit  called  out  all  the  latent  strength 
within  him  j  and  gently  and  proudly  he  answered 
her: 

i— vol.  y 


178  Yeast 

"  Yes,  I  will  go.  I  have  had  mad  dreams,  con- 
ceited and  insolent,  and  have  met  with  my 
deserts.  Brute  and  fool  as  I  am,  I  have  aspired 
even  to  you!  And  I  have  gained,  in  the  sun- 
shine of  your  condescension,  strength  and  purity. 
—  Is  not  that  enough  for  me  ?  And  now  I  will 
show  you  that  I  love  you  —  by  obeying  you. 
You  tell  me  to  depart  —  I  go  forever." 

He  turned  away.  Why  did  she  almost  spring 
after  him? 

"  Lancelot !  one  word  !  Do  not  misunderstand 
me,  as  I  know  you  will.  You  will  think  me  so 
cold,  heartless,  fickle.  —  Oh,  you  do  not  know  — 
you  never  can  know  —  how  much  I,  too,  have 
felt !  " 

He  stopped,  spell-bound.  In  an  instant  his 
conversation  with  the  Irishman  flashed  up  before 
him  with  new  force  and  meaning.  A  thousand 
petty  incidents,  which  he  had  driven  contempt- 
uously from  his  mind,  returned  as  triumphant 
evidences ;  and,  with  an  impetuous  determination, 
he  cried  out : 

"I  see  —  I  see  it  all,  Argemone !  We  love 
each  other !  You  are  mine,  never  to  be  parted !  " 

What  was  her  womanhood,  that  it  could  stand 
against  the  energy  of  his  manly  will !  The 
almost  coarse  simplicity  of  his  words  silenced  her 
with  a  delicious  violence.  She  could  only  bury 
her  face  in  her  hands  and  sob  out: 

"  Oh,  Lancelot,  Lancelot,  whither  are  you  forc- 
ing me  ? " 

"  I  am  forcing  you  no  whither.  God,  the  Father 
of  spirits,  is  leading  you  !  You,  who  believe  in 
Him,  how  dare  you  fight  against  Him?  " 

"Lancelot,  I  cannot  —  I  cannot  listen  to  you 


"Murder  will  out,"  and  Love  too     179 

—  read  that !  "     And  she  handed  him  the  vicar's 
letter.     He  read  it,  tossed  it  on  the  carpet,  and 
crushed  it  with  his  heel. 

"  Wretched  pedant !  Can  your  intellect  be 
deluded  by  such  barefaced  sophistries?  '  God's 
will,'  forsooth  !  And  if  your  mother's  opposition 
is  not  a  sign  that  God's  will  —  if  it  mean  any- 
thing except  your  own  will,  or  that  —  that  man's 

—  is   against   this   mad  project,  and  not  for  it, 
what  sign  would  you  have?     So  '  celibacy  is  the 
highest  state!'     And  why?     Because   'it  is  the 
safest  and  the  easiest  road  to  heaven  ? '     A  pretty 
reason,  vicar!     I  should  have  thought  that  that 
was   a   sign  of  a   lower  state  and  not  a  higher. 
Noble  spirits  show  their  nobleness  by  daring  the 
most  difficult  paths.     And  even  if  marriage  was 
but  one  weed-field  of  temptations,  as  these  miser- 
able pedants  say,  who  have  either  never  tried  it, 
or  misused  it  to  their  own  shame,  it  would  be  a 
greater  deed  to  conquer  its  temptations  than  to 
flee  from  them  in  cowardly  longings  after  ease 
and  safety ! " 

She  did  not  answer  him,  but  kept  her  face 
buried  in  her  hands. 

"Again,  I  say,  Argemone,  will  you  fight 
against  Fate  —  Providence  —  God  —  call  it  what 
you  will?  Who  made  us  meet  at  the  chapel? 
Who  made  me,  by  my  accident,  a  guest  in  your 
father's  house?  Who  put  it  into  your  heart  to 
care  for  my  poor  soul  ?  Who  gave  us  this  strange 
attraction  towards  each  other,  in  spite  of  our 
unlikeness?  Wonderful  that  the  very  chain  of 
circumstances  which  you  seem  to  fancy  the  off- 
spring of  chance  or  the  devil,  should  have  first 
taught  me  to  believe  that  there  is  a  God  who 


180  Yeast 

guides  us !  Argemone !  speak,  tell  me,  if  you 
will,  to  go  forever ;  but  tell  me  first  the  truth  — 
You  love  me !  " 

A  strong  shudder  ran  through  her  frame  —  the 
ice  of  artificial  years  cracked,  and  the  clear 
stream  of  her  woman's  nature  welled  up  to  the 
light,  as  pure  as  when  she  first  lay  on  her 
mother's  bosom  :  she  lifted  up  her  eyes,  and  with 
one  long  look  of  passionate  tenderness  she  fal- 
tered out: 

"I  love  you!" 

He  did  not  stir,  but  watched  her  with  clasped 
hands,  like  one  who  in  dreams  finds  himself  in 
some  fairy  palace,  and  fears  that  a  movement 
may  break  the  spell. 

"Now,  go,"  she  said;  "go,  and  let  me  collect 
my  thoughts.  All  this  has  been  too  much  for 
me.  Do  not  look  sad  —  you  may  come  again 
to-morrow. " 

She  smiled  and  held  out  her  hand.  He  caught 
it,  covered  it  with  kisses,  and  pressed  it  to  his 
heart.  She  half  drew  it  back,  frightened.  The 
sensation  was  new  to  her.  Again  the  delicious 
feeling  of  being  utterly  in  his  power  came  over 
her,  and  she  left  her  hand  upon  his  heart,  and 
blushed  as  she  felt  its  passionate  throbbings. 

He  turned  to  go  —  not  as  before.  She  followed 
with  greedy  eyes  her  new-found  treasure;  and 
as  the  door  closed  behind  him,  she  felt  as  if 
Lancelot  was  the  whole  world,  and  there  was 
nothing  beside  him,  and  wondered  how  a  moment 
had  made  him  all  in  all  to  her;  and  then  she 
sank  upon  her  knees,  and  folded  her  hands  upon 
her  bosom,  and  her  prayers  for  him  were  like  the 
prayers  of  a  little  child. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THUNDERSTORM  THE  FIRST 

BUT  what  had  become  of  the  " bit  of  writing " 
which  Harry  Verney,  by  the  instigation  of 
his  evil  genius,  had  put  into  the  squire's  fly-book? 
Tregarva  had  waited  in  terrible  suspense  for  many 
weeks,  expecting  the  explosion  which  he  knew 
must  follow  its  discovery.  He  had  confided  to 
Lancelot  the  contents  of  the  paper,  and  Lancelot 
had  tried  many  stratagems  to  get  possession  of  it, 
but  all  in  vain.  Tregarva  took  this  as  calmly  as  he 
did  everything  else.  Only  once,  on  the  morning  of 
the  tclaircissement  between  Lancelot  and  Arge- 
mone,  he  talked  to  Lancelot  of  leaving  his  place, 
and  going  out  to  seek  his  fortune ;  but  some  spell, 
which  he  did  not  explain,  seemed  to  chain  him  to 
the  Priory.  Lancelot  thought  it  was  the  want  of 
money,  and  offered  to  lend  him  ten  pounds  when- 
ever he  liked ;  but  Tregarva  shook  his  head. 

"  You  have  treated  me,  sir,  as  no  one  else  has 
done  —  like  a  man  and  a  friend;  but  I  am  not 
going  to  make  a  market  of  your  generosity.  I  will 
owe  no  man  anything,  save  to  love  one  another." 

"  But  how  do  you  intend  to  live  ? "  asked 
Lancelot,  as  they  stood  together  in  the  cloisters. 

"  There 's  enough  of  me,  sir,  to  make  a  good 
navigator  if  all  trades  fail." 


1 82  Yeast 

"  Nonsense !  you  must  not  throw  yourself  away 
so." 

"  Oh,  sir,  there 's  good  to  be  done,  believe  me, 
among  those  poor  fellows.  They  wander  up  and 
down  the  land  like  hogs  and  heathens,  and  no  one 
tells  them  that  they  have  a  soul  to  be  saved.  Not 
one  parson  in  a  thousand  gives  a  thought  to  them. 
They  can  manage  old  folks  and  little  children,  sir, 
but,  somehow,  they  never  can  get  hold  of  the  young 
men  —  just  those  who  want  them  most.  There's 
a  talk  about  ragged  schools,  now.  Why  don't  they 
try  ragged  churches,  sir,  and  a  ragged  service?" 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Why,  sir,  the  parsons  are  ready  enough  to  save 
souls,  but  it  must  be  only  according  to  rule  and 
regulation.  Before  the  Gospel  can  be  preached 
there  must  be  three  thousand  pounds  got  together 
for  a  church,  and  a  thousand  for  an  endowment, 
not  to  mention  the  thousand  pounds  that  the 
clergyman's  education  costs :  I  don't  think  of  his 
own  keep,  sir;  that's  little  enough,  often;  and 
those  that  work  hardest  get  least  pay,  it  seems  to 
me.  But  after  all  that  expense,  when  they've  built 
the  church,  it 's  the  tradesmen,  and  the  gentry,  and 
the  old  folk  that  fill  it,  and  the  working  men  never 
come  near  it  from  one  year's  end  to  another." 

"What's  the  cause,  do  you  think?"  asked 
Lancelot,  who  had  himself  remarked  the  same  thing 
more  than  once. 

"  Half  of  the  reason,  sir,  I  do  believe,  is  that 
same  Prayer-book.  Not  that  the  Prayer-book 
ain't  a  fine  book  enough,  and  a  true  one;  but 
don't  you  see,  sir,  to  understand  the  virtue  of  it, 
the  poor  fellows  ought  to  be  already  just  what  you 
want  to  make  them." 


Thunderstorm  the  First          183 

"You  mean  that  they  ought  to  be  thorough 
Christians  already,  to  appreciate  the  spirituality  of 
the  liturgy. " 

"  You  Ve  hit  it,  sir.  And  see  what  comes  of  the 
present  plan ;  how  a  navvy  drops  into  a  church  by 
accident,  and  there  he  has  to  sit  like  a  fish  out  of 
water,  through  that  hour's  service,  staring  or 
sleeping,  before  he  can  hear  a  word  that  he  under- 
stands ;  and,  sir,  when  the  sermon  does  come  at 
last,  it 's  not  many  of  them  can  make  much  out  of 
those  fine  book-words  and  long  sentences.  Why 
don't  they  have  a  short  simple  service,  now  and 
then,  that  might  catch  the  ears  of  the  roughs  and 
the  blowens,  without  tiring  out  the  poor  thought- 
less creatures'  patience,  as  they  do  now?  " 

"  Because,"  said  Lancelot,  —  "  because  —  I  really 
don't  know  why.  —  But  I  think  there  is  a  simpler 
plan  than  even  a  ragged  service." 

"What,  then,  sir?" 

"  Field-preaching.  If  the  mountain  won't  come 
to  Mahomet,  let  Mahomet  go  to  the  moun- 
tain." 

"  Right,  sir ;  right  you  are.  '  Go  out  into  the 
highways  and  hedges,  and  compel  them  to  come 
in.'  And  why  are  they  to  speak  to  them  only 
one  by  one?  Why  not  by  the  dozen  and  the  hun- 
dred ?  We  Wesleyans  know,  sir,  —  for  the  matter 
of  that,  every  soldier  knows,  —  what  virtue  there 
is  in  getting  a  lot  of  men  together ;  how  good  and 
evil  spread  like  wildfire  through  a  crowd ;  and  one 
man,  if  you  can  stir  him  up,  will  become  leaven  to 
leaven  the  whole  lump.  Oh  why,  sir,  are  they  so 
afraid  of  field-preaching?  Was  not  their  Master 
and  mine  the  prince  of  all  field-preachers?  Think, 
if  the  Apostles  had  waited  to  collect  subscriptions 


184  Yeast 

for  a  church  before  they  spoke  to  the  poor  heath- 
ens, where  should  we  have  been  now?" 

Lancelot  could  not  but  agree.  But  at  that 
moment  a  footman  came  up,  and,  with  a  face 
half  laughing,  half  terrified,  said : 

"Tregarva,  master  wants  you  in  the  study. 
And  please,  sir,  I  think  you  had  better  go  in 
too ;  master  knows  you  're  here,  and  you  might 
speak  a  word  for  good,  for  he 's  raging  like  a  mad 
bull." 

"  I  knew  it  would  come  at  last,"  said  Tregarva, 
quietly,  as  he  followed  Lancelot  into  the  house. 

It  had  come  at  last.  The  squire  was  sitting  in 
his  study,  purple  with  rage,  while  his  daughters 
were  trying  vainly  to  pacify  him.  All  the  men- 
servants,  grooms,  and  helpers  were  drawn  up  in 
line  along  the  wall,  and  greeted  Tregarva,  whom 
they  all  heartily  liked,  with  sly  and  sorrowful  looks 
of  warning. 

"  Here,  you  sir ;  you ,  look  at  this  !  Is  this 

the  way  you  repay  me?  I,  who  have  kept  you 
out  of  the  workhouse,  treated  you  like  my  own 
child?  And  then  to  go  and  write  filthy,  rascally, 
Radical  ballads  on  me  and  mine  !  This  comes  of 
your  Methodism,  you  canting,  sneaking  hypo- 
crite !  —  you  viper  —  you  adder  —  you  snake  — 

you !  "  And  the  squire,  whose  vocabulary 

was  not  large,  at  a  loss  for  another  synonym, 
rounded  off  his  oration  by  a  torrent  of  oaths ;  at 
which  Argemone,  taking  Honoria's  hand,  walked 
proudly  out  of  the  room,  with  one  glance  at  Lan- 
celot of  mingled  shame  and  love.  "  This  is  your 
handwriting,  you  villain !  you  know  it "  (and  the 
squire  tossed  the  fatal  paper  across  the  table) ; 
"  though  I  suppose  you  '11  lie  about  it.  How  can 


Thunderstorm  the  First          185 

you  depend  on  fellows  who  speak  evil  of  their 
betters  ?  But  all  the  servants  are  ready  to  swear 
it's  your  handwriting." 

"  Beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  interposed  the  old  but- 
ler, "  we  did  n't  quite  say  that ;  but  we  '11  all  swear 
it  isn't  ours." 

"  The  paper  is  mine,"  said  Tregarva. 

"  Confound    your    coolness !      He 's    no   more 

ashamed  of  it  than Read  it  out,  Smith,  read 

it  out  every  word ;  and  let  them  all  hear  how  this 
pauper,  this  ballad-singing  vagabond,  whom  I  have 
bred  up  to  insult  me,  dares  to  abuse  his  own 
master." 

"  I  have  not  abused  you,  sir,"  answered  Tre- 
garva. "  I  will  be  heard,  sir !  "  he  went  on  in  a 
voice  which  made  the  old  man  start  from  his  seat 
and  clench  his  fist ;  but  he  sat  down  again.  "  Not 
a  word  in  it  is  meant  for  you.  You  have  been  a 
kind  and  a  good  master  to  me.  Ask  where  you  will 
if  I  was  ever  heard  to  say  a  word  against  you.  I 
would  have  cut  off  my  right  hand  sooner  than 
write  about  you  or  yours.  But  what  I  had  to 
say  about  others  lies  there,  and  I  am  not  ashamed 
of  it." 

"Not  against  me?  Read  it  out,  Smith,  and 
see  if  every  word  of  it  don't  hit  at  me,  and  at  my 

daughters,  too,  by  ,  worst  of  all!     Read  it 

out,  I  say!" 

Lancelot  hesitated;  but  the  squire,  who  was 
utterly  beside  himself,  began  to  swear  at  him 
also,  as  masters  of  hounds  are  privileged  to  do ; 
and  Lancelot,  to  whom  the  whole  scene  was  becom- 
ing every  moment  more  and  more  intensely  ludi- 
crous, thought  it  best  to  take  up  the  paper  and 
begin :  — 


1 86          Yeast 


"A  ROUGH  RHYME  ON  A  ROUGH  MATTER. 

"  The  merry  brown  hares  came  leaping 

Over  the  crest  of  the  hill, 
Where  the  clover  and  corn  lay  sleeping 
Under  the  moonlight  still. 

u  Leaping  late  and  early, 

Till  under  their  bite  and  their  tread 
The  swedes,  and  the  wheat,  and  the  barley 
Lay  cankered,  and  trampled,  and  dead. 

u  A  poacher's  widow  sat  sighing 

On  the  side  of  the  white  chalk  bank, 
Where  under  the  gloomy  fir-woods 
One  spot  in  the  ley  throve  rank. 

u  She  watched  a  long  tuft  of  clover, 
Where  rabbit  or  hare  never  ran ; 
For  its  black  sour  haulm  covered  over 
The  blood  of  a  murdered  man. 

"  She  thought  of  the  dark  plantation, 

And  the  hares  and  her  husband's  blood, 
And  the  voice  of  her  indignation 
Rose  up  to  the  throne  of  God. 

** '  I  am  long  past  wailing  and  whining  — 

I  have  wept  too  much  in  my  life : 
I  Ve  had  twenty  years  of  pining 
As  an  English  laborer's  wife. 

u '  A  laborer  in  Christian  England, 

Where  they  cant  of  a  Saviour's  name, 
And  yet  waste  men's  lives  like  the  vermin's 
For  a  few  more  brace  of  game. 

**' There 's  blood  on  your  new  foreign  shrubs,  squire; 

There  's  blood  on  your  pointer's  feet ; 
There 's  blood  on  the  game  you  sell,  squire, 
And  there 's  blood  on  the  game  you  eatl ' " 


Thunderstorm  the  First          187 

"  You  villain !  "    interposed  the  squire,  "  when 
did  I  ever  sell  a  head  of  game  ?  " 

** '  You  have  sold  the  laboring  man,  squire, 

Body  and  soul  to  shame, 
To  pay  for  your  seat  in  the  House,  squire, 
And  to  pay  for  the  feed  of  your  game. 

44 '  You  made  him  a  poacher  yourself,  squire, 
When  you  'd  give  neither  work  nor  meat ; 
And  your  barley-fed  hares  robbed  the  garden 
At  our  starving  children's  feet ; 

u*  When  packed  in  one  reeking  chamber, 

Man,  maid,  mother,  and  little  ones  lay ; 
While  the  rain  pattered  in  on  the  rotting  bride-bed. 
And  the  walls  let  in  the  day; 

**  *  When  we  lay  in  the  burning  fever 

On  the  mud  of  the  cold  clay  floor, 
Till  you  parted  us  all  for  three  months,  squire, 
At  the  cursed  workhouse  door. 

** '  We  quarrelled  like  brutes,  and  who  wonders  ? 

What  self-respect  could  we  keep, 
Worse  housed  than  your  hacks  and  your  pointers, 
Worse  fed  than  your  hogs  and  your  sheep  ? '  " 

"And  yet  he  has  the  impudence  to  say  he  don't 
mean  me ! "  grumbled  the  old  man.  Tregarva 
winced  a  good  deal  —  as  if  he  knew  what  was 
coming  next;  and  then  looked  up  relieved  when 
he  found  Lancelot  had  omitted  a  stanza  —  which 
I  shall  not  omit. 

" '  Our  daughters  with  base-born  babies 

Have  wandered  away  in  their  shame  ; 
If  your  misses  had  slept,  squire,  where  they  did, 
Your  misses  might  do  the  same. 


1 88  Yeast 

" '  Can  your  lady  patch  hearts  that  are  breaking 

With  handfuls  of  coals  and  rice, 
Or  by  dealing  out  flannel  and  sheeting 
A  little  below  cost  price  ? 

" '  You  may  tire  of  the  gaol  and  the  workhouse, 

And  take  to  allotments  and  schools, 
But  you  Ve  run  up  a  debt  that  will  never 
Be  repaid  us  by  penny-club  rules. 

u '  In  the  season  of  shame  and  sadness, 

In  the  dark  and  dreary  day 
When  scrofula,  gout,  and  madness 
Are  eating  your  race  away ; 

"'When  to  kennels  and  liveried  varlets 

You  have  cast  your  daughters'  bread; 
And  worn  out  with  liquor  and  harlots, 
Your  heir  at  your  feet  lies  dead; 

**  *  When  your  youngest,  the  mealy-mouthed  rector, 

Lets  your  soul  rot  asleep  to  the  grave, 
You  will  find  in  your  God  the  protector 
Of  the  freeman  you  fancied  your  slave.' 

"  She  looked  at  the  tuft  of  clover, 

And  wept  till  her  heart  grew  light ; 
And  at  last,  when  her  passion  was  over, 
Went  wandering  into  the  night 

u  But  the  merry  brown  hares  came  leaping 

Over  the  uplands  still, 
Where  the  clover  and  corn  lay  sleeping 
On  the  side  of  the  white  chalk  hill." 

"  Surely,  sir,"  said  Lancelot,  "  you  cannot  sup- 
pose that  this  latter  part  applies  to  you  or  your 
family?" 

"  If  it  don't,  it  applies  to  half  the  gentlemen  in 
the  vale,  and  that's  just  as  bad,  What  right  has 


Thunderstorm  the  First          189 

the  fellow  to  speak  evil  of  dignities  ? "  continued 
he,  quoting  the  only  text  in  the  Bible  which  he 
was  inclined  to  make  a  "  rule  absolute."  "  What 
does  such  an  insolent  dog  deserve?  What  don't 
he  deserve,  I  say?" 

"  I  think,"  quoth  Lancelot,  ambiguously,  "  that 
a  man  who  can  write  such  ballads  is  not  fit  to  be 
your  gamekeeper,  and  I  think  he  feels  so  him- 
self; "  and  Lancelot  stole  an  encouraging  look  at 
Tregarva. 

"  And  I  say,  sir,"  the  keeper  answered,  with  an 
effort,  "  that  I  leave  Mr.  Lavington's  service  here 
on  the  spot,  once  and  for  all." 

"  And  that  you  may  do,  my  fine  fellow !  "  roared 
the  squire.  "  Pay  the  rascal  his  wages,  steward, 
and  then  duck  him  soundly  in  the  weir-pool.  He 
had  better  have  stayed  there  when  he  fell  in 
last." 

"  So  I  had,  indeed,  I  think.  But  I  '11  take  none 
of  your  money.  The  day  Harry  Verney  was 
buried  I  vowed  that  I'd  touch  no  more  of  the 
wages  of  blood.  I'm  going,  sir;  I  never  harmed 
you,  or  meant  a  hard  word  of  all  this  for  you,  or 
dreamt  that  you  or  any  living  soul  would  ever 
see  it.  But  what  I've  seen  myself,  in  spite 
of  myself,  I  've  set  down  here,  and  am  not 
ashamed  of  it.  And  woe,"  he  went  on  with  an 
almost  prophetic  solemnity  in  his  tone  and  gesture 
—  "  woe  to  those  who  do  these  things !  and  woe 
to  those  also  who,  though  they  dare  not  do  them 
themselves,  yet  excuse  and  defend  them  who  dare, 
just  because  the  world  calls  them  gentlemen,  and 
not  tyrants  and  oppressors." 

He  turned  to  go.  The  squire,  bursting  with 
passion,  sprang  up  with  a  terrible  oath,  turned 


190  Yeast 

deadly  pale,  staggered,  and  dropped  senseless  on 
the  floor. 

They  all  rushed  to  lift  him  up.  Tregarva  was 
the  first  to  take  him  in  his  arms  and  place  him 
tenderly  in  his  chair,  where  he  lay  back  with  glassy 
eyes,  snoring  heavily  in  a  fit  of  apoplexy. 

"Go;  for  God's  sake,  go,"  whispered  Lancelot 
to  the  keeper,  "  and  wait  for  me  at  Lower  Whitford. 
I  must  see  you  before  you  stir." 

The  keeper  slipped  away  sadly.  The  ladies 
rushed  in  —  a  groom  galloped  off  for  the  doctor — 
met  him  luckily  in  the  village,  and,  in  a  few 
minutes,  the  squire  was  bled  and  put  to  bed,  and 
showed  hopeful  signs  of  returning  consciousness. 
And  as  Argemone  and  Lancelot  leant  together 
over  his  pillow,  her  hair  touched  her  lover's,  and 
her  fragrant  breath  was  warm  upon  his  cheek; 
and  her  bright  eyes  met  his  and  drank  light  from 
them,  like  glittering  planets  gazing  at  their 
sun. 

The  obnoxious  ballad  produced  the  most  oppo- 
site effects  on  Argemone  and  on  Honoria.  Arge- 
mone, whose  reverence  for  the  formalities  and  the 
respectabilities  x>f  society,  never  very  great,  had, 
of  late,  utterly  vanished  before  Lancelot's  bad 
counsel,  could  think  of  it  only  as  a  work  of  art, 
and  conceived  the  most  romantic  longing  to  raise 
Tregarva  into  some  station  where  his  talents  might 
have  free  play.  To  Honoria,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  appeared  only  as  a  very  fierce,  coarse,  and  im- 
pertinent satire,  which  had  nearly  killed  her  father. 
True,  there  was  not  a  thought  in  it  which  had  not 
at  some  time  or  other  crossed  her  own  mind; 
but  that  made  her  dislike  all  the  more  to  see  those 
thoughts  put  into  plain  English.  That  very  in- 


Thunderstorm  the  First          191 

tense  tenderness  and  excitability  which  made  her 
toil  herself  among  the  poor,  and  had  called  out 
both  her  admiration  of  Tregarva  and  her  extrava- 
gant passion  at  his  danger,  made  her  also  shrink 
with  disgust  from  anything  which  thrust  on  her  a 
painful  reality  which  she  could  not  remedy.  She 
was  a  stanch  believer,  too,  in  that  peculiar  creed 
which  allows  every  one  to  feel  for  the  poor,  except 
themselves,  and  considers  that  to  plead  the  cause 
of  workingmen  is,  in  a  gentleman,  the  perfection 
of  virtue,  but  in  a  workingman  himself,  sheer  high 
treason.  And  so  beside  her  father's  sick-bed  she 
thought  of  the  keeper  only  as  a  scorpion  whom 
she  had  helped  to  warm  into  life;  and  sighing 
assent  to  her  mother,  when  she  said,  "  That  wretch, 
and  he  seemed  so  pious  and  so  obliging !  who 
would  have  dreamt  that  he  was  such  a  horrid  Rad- 
ical ?  "  she  let  him  vanish  from  her  mind  and  out 
of  Whitford  Priors,  little  knowing  the  sore  weight 
of  manly  love  he  bore  with  him. 

As  soon  as  Lancelot  could  leave  the  Priory, 
he  hastened  home  to  find  Tregarva.  The  keeper 
had  packed  up  all  his  small  possessions  and 
brought  them  down  to  Lower  Whitford,  through 
which  the  London  coach  passed.  He  was  deter- 
mined to  go  to  London  and  seek  his  fortune.  He 
talked  of  turning  coal-heaver,  Methodist  preacher, 
anything  that  came  to  hand,  provided  that  he 
could  but  keep  independence  and  a  clear  con- 
science. And  all  the  while  the  man  seemed  to 
be  struggling  with  some  great  purpose, — to  feel 
that  he  had  a  work  to  do,  though  what  it  was,  and 
how  it  was  to  be  done,  he  did  not  see. 

"I  am  a  tall  man,"  he  said,  " like  Saul  the  son 
of  Kish ;  and  I  am  going  forth,  like  him,  sir,  to 


192  Yeast 

find  my  father's  asses.  I  doubt  I  sha'n't  have  to 
look  far  for  some  of  them." 

"And  perhaps,"  said  Lancelot,  laughing,  "to 
find  a  kingdom." 

"  May  be  so,  sir.  I  have  found  one  already,  by 
God's  grace,  and  I  'm  much  mistaken  if  I  don't 
begin  to  see  my  way  towards  another." 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"  The  kingdom  of  God  on  earth,  sir,  as  well  as 
in  heaven.  Come  it  must,  sir,  and  come  it  will 
some  day." 

Lancelot  shook  his  head. 

Tregarva  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  said : 

"  Are  we  not  taught  to  pray  for  the  coming  of 
His  kingdom,  sir?  And  do  you  fancy  that  He 
who  gave  the  lesson  would  have  set  all  mankind 
to  pray  for  what  He  never  meant  should  come 
to  pass?" 

Lancelot  was  silent.  The  words  gained  a  new 
and  blessed  meaning  in  his  eyes. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  the  time,  at  least,  of  their  ful- 
filment is  far  enough  off.  Union-workhouses  and 
child-murder  don't  lo  k  much  like  it.  Talking  of 
that,  Tregarva,  what  is  to  become  of  your  promise 
to  take  me  to  a  village  wake,  and  show  me  what 
the  poor  are  like?" 

"  I  can  keep  it  this  night,  sir.  There  is  a  revel 
at  Bonesake,  about  five  miles  up  the  river.  Will 
you  go  with  a  discharged  gamekeeper?" 

"I  will  go  with  Paul  Tregarva,  whom  I  honor 
and  esteem  as  one  of  God's  own  noblemen ;  who 
has  taught  me  what  a  man  can  be,  and  what  I  am 
not,"  —  and  Lancelot  grasped  the  keeper's  hand 
warmly.  Tregarva  brushed  his  hand  across  his 
eyes,  and  answered: 


Thunderstorm  the  First          193 

" '  I  said  in  my  haste,  All  men  are  liars ; '  and 
God  has  just  given  me  the  lie  back  in  my  own 
teeth.  Well,  sir,  we  will  go  to-night.  You  are 
not  ashamed  of  putting  on  a  smock-frock?  For 
if  you  go  as  a  gentleman,  you  will  hear  no  more 
of  them  than  a  hawk  does  of  a  covey  of  partridges." 

So  the  expedition  was  agreed  on,  and  Lancelot 
and  the  keeper  parted  until  the  evening. 

But  why  had  the  vicar  been  rumbling  on  all 
that  morning  through  pouring  rain,  on  the  top  of 
the  London  coach?  And  why  was  he  so  anxious 
in  his  inquiries  as  to  the  certainty  of  catching 
the  up-train?  Because  he  had  had  consider- 
able experience  in  that  wisdom  of  the  serpent, 
whose  combination  with  the  innocence  of  the  dove, 
in  somewhat  ultramontane  proportions,  is  recom- 
mended by  certain  late  leaders  of  his  school.  He 
had  made  up  his  mind,  after  his  conversation  with 
the  Irishman,  that  he  must  either  oust  Lancelot  at 
once,  or  submit  to  be  ousted  by  him,  and  he  was 
now  on  his  way  to  Lancelot's  uncle  and  trustee, 
the  London  banker. 

He  knew  that  the  banker  had  some  influence 
with  his  nephew,  whose  whole  property  was 
invested  rh  the  bank,  and  who  had  besides  a 
deep  respect  for  the  kindly  and  upright  practical 
mind  of  the  veteran  Mammonite.  And  the  vicar 
knew,  too,  that  he  himself  had  some  influence 
with  the  banker,  whose  son  Luke  had  been  his 
pupil  at  college.  And  when  the  young  man  lay 
sick  of  a  dangerous  illness,  brought  on  by  de- 
bauchery, into  which  weakness  rather  than  vice 
had  tempted  him,  the  vicar  had  watched  and 
prayed  by  his  bed,  nursed  him  as  tenderly  as  a 
mother,  and  so  won  over  his  better  heart  that  he 


194  Yeast 

became  completely  reclaimed,  and  took  holy 
orders  with  the  most  earnest  intention  to  play  the 
man  therein,  as  repentant  rakes  will  often  do, 
half  from  a  mere  revulsion  to  asceticism,  half 
from  real  gratitude  for  their  deliverance.  This 
good  deed  had  placed  the  banker  in  the  vicar's 
debt,  and  he  loved  and  reverenced  him  in  spite 
of  his  dread  of  "Popish  novelties."  And  now 
the  good  priest  was  going  to  open  to  him  just  as 
much  of  his  heart  as  should  seem  fit;  and  by 
saying  a  great  deal  about  Lancelot's  evil  doings, 
opinions,  and  companions,  and  nothing  at  all 
about  the  heiress  of  Whitford,  persuade  the 
banker  to  use  all  his  influence  in  drawing  Lance- 
lot up  to  London,  and  leaving  a  clear  stage  for 
his  plans  on  Argemone.  He  caught  the  up-train, 
he  arrived  safe  and  sound  in  town,  but  what  he 
did  there  must  be  told  in  another  chapter. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THUNDERSTORM  THE  SECOND 

WEARY  with  many  thoughts,  the  vicar 
came  to  the  door  of  the  bank.  There 
were  several  carriages  there,  and  a  crowd  of 
people  swarming  in  and  out,  like  bees  round  a 
hive-door,  entering  with  anxious  faces,  and  re- 
turning with  cheerful  ones,  to  stop  and  talk  ear- 
nestly in  groups  round  the  door.  Every  moment 
the  mass  thickened  —  there  was  a  run  on  the 
bank. 

An  old  friend  accosted  him  on  the  steps : 
"  What !  have  you,  too,  money  here,  then  ? " 
"Neither    here     nor     anywhere     else,    thank 
Heaven ! "  said    the    vicar.     "  But    is    anything 
wrong? " 

"Have  not  you  heard?  The  house  has  sus- 
tained a  frightful  blow  this  week  —  railway  specu- 
lations, so  they  say  —  and  is  hardly  expected  to 
survive  the  day.  So  we  are  all  getting  our  money 
out  as  fast  as  possible." 

"  By  way  of  binding  up  the  bruised  reed,  eh  ?  " 
"  Oh !  every  man  for  himself.     A  man  is  under 
no   obligation   to   his   banker,  that  I  know   of." 
And  the  good  man  bustled  off  with  his  pockets 
full  of  gold. 

The  vicar  entered.  All  was  hurry  and  anxiety. 
The  clerks  seemed  trying  to  brazen  out  their 


196  Yeast 

own  terror,  and  shovelled  the  rapidly  lessening 
gold  and  notes  across  the  counter  with  an  air  of 
indignant  nonchalance.  The  vicar  asked  to  see 
the  principal. 

"If  you  want  your  money,  sir "  answered 

the  official,  with  a  disdainful  look. 

"I  want  no  money.  I  must  see  Mr.  Smith  on 
private  business,  and  instantly." 

"He  is  particularly  engaged." 

"I  know  it,  and,  therefore,  I  must  see  him. 
Take  in  my  card,  and  he  will  not  refuse  me."  A 
new  vista  had  opened  itself  before  him. 

He  was  ushered  into  a  private  room :  and,  as 
he  waited  for  the  banker,  he  breathed  a  prayer. 
For  what?  That  his  own  will  might  be  done  — 
a  very  common  style  of  petition. 

Mr.  Smith  entered,  hurried  and  troubled.  He 
caught  the  vicar  eagerly  by  the  hand,  as  if  glad 
to  see  a  face  which  did  not  glare  on  him  with 
the  cold  selfish  stamp  of  "business,"  and  then 
drew  back  again,  afraid  to  commit  himself  by 
any  sign  of  emotion. 

The  vicar  had  settled  his  plan  of  attack,  and 
determined  boldly  to  show  his  knowledge  of  the 
banker's  distress. 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  trouble  you  at  such  an 
unfortunate  moment,  sir,  and  I  will  be  brief;  but, 

as  your  nephew's  spiritual  pastor "  (He 

knew  the  banker  was  a  stout  Churchman.) 

"What  of  my  nephew,  sir!  No  fresh  misfor- 
tunes, I  hope  ? " 

"Not  so  much  misfortune,  sir,  as  misconduct 
—  I  might  say  frailty  —  but  frailty  which  may 
become  ruinous." 

"How?  how?    Some  mesalliance ? "  interrupted 


Thunderstorm  the  Second        197 

Mr.  Smith,  in  a  peevish,  excited  tone.  "I 
thought  there  was  some  heiress  on  the  tapis—- at 
least,  so  I  heard  from  my  unfortunate  son,  who 
has  just  gone  over  to  Rome.  There 's  another 
misfortune.  — Nothing  but  misfortunes;  and  your 
teaching,  sir,  by  the  by,  I  am  afraid,  has  helped 
me  to  that  one. " 

"  Gone  over  to  Rome  ? "  asked  the  vicar,  slowly. 

"Yes,  sir,  gone  to  Rome  —  to  the  Pope,  sir!  to 
the  devil,  sir !  I  should  have  thought  you  likely 
to  know  of  it  before  I  did ! " 

The  vicar  stared  fixedly  at  him  a  moment,  and 
burst  into  honest  tears.  The  banker  was  moved. 

"Ton   my  honor,   sir,  I  beg  your  pardon.     I 

did  not  mean  to  be  rude,  but  —  but To  be 

plain  with  a  clergyman,  sir,  so  many  things  com- 
ing together  have  quite  unmanned  me.  Pooh, 
pooh,"  and  he  shook  himself  as  if  to  throw  off  a 
weight;  and,  with  a  face  once  more  quiet  and 
business-like,  asked,  "And  now,  my  dear  sir, 
what  of  my  nephew  ? " 

"As  for  that  young  lady,  sir,  of  whom  you 
spoke,  I  can  assure  you,  once  for  all,  as  her 
clergyman,  and  therefore  more  or  less  her  confi- 
dant, that  your  nephew  has  not  the  slightest 
chance  or  hope  in  that  quarter." 

"How,  sir?  You  will  not  throw  obstacles  in 
the  way?" 

"  Heaven,  sir,  I  think,  has  interposed  far  more 
insuperable  obstacles  —  in  the  young  lady's  own 
heart  —  than  I  could  ever  have  done.  Your 
nephew's  character  and  opinions,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  are  not  such  as  are  likely  to  command  the 
respect  and  affection  of  a  pure  and  pious  Church- 
woman." 


198  Yeast 

"Opinions,  sir?  What,  is  he  turning  Papist, 
too?" 

"  I  am  afraid,  sir,  and  more  than  afraid,  for  he 
makes  no  secret  of  it  himself,  that  his  views 
tend  rather  in  the  opposite  direction ;  to  an  infi- 
delity so  subversive  of  the  commonest  principles 
of  morality,  that  I  expect,  weekly,  to  hear  of 
some  unblushing  and  disgraceful  outrage  against 
decency,  committed  by  him  under  its  fancied 
sanction.  And  you  know,  as  well  as  myself,  the 
double  danger  of  some  profligate  outbreak,  which 
always  attends  the  miseries  of  a  disappointed 
earthly  passion." 

"True,  very  true.  We  must  get  the  boy  out 
of  the  way,  sir.  I  must  have  him  under  my  eye." 

"Exactly  so,  sir,"  said  the  subtle  vicar,  who 
had  been  driving  at  this  very  point.  "How 
much  better  for  him  to  be  here,  using  his  great 
talents  to  the  advantage  of  his  family  in  an 
honorable  profession,  than  to  remain  where  he  is, 
debauching  body  and  mind  by  hopeless  dreams, 
godless  studies,  and  frivolous  excesses." 

"When  do  you  return,  sir?" 

"An  hour  hence,  if  I  can  be  of  service  to  you." 

The  banker  paused  a  moment. 

"  You  are  a  gentleman  "  (with  emphasis  on  the 
word),  "  and  as  such  I  can  trust  you. " 

"  Say,  rather,  as  a  clergyman. " 

"Pardon  me,  but  I  have  found  your  cloth  give 
little  additional  cause  for  confidence.  I  have 
been  as  much  bitten  by  clergymen  —  I  have  seen 
as  sharp  practice  among  them,  in  money  matters 
as  well  as  in  religious  squabbles,  as  I  have  in 
any  class.  Whether  it  is  that  their  book  educa- 
tion leaves  them  very  often  ignorant  of  the  plain 


Thunderstorm  the  Second       199 

rules  of  honor  which  bind  men  of  the  world,  or 
whether  their  zeal  makes  them  think  that  the  end 
justifies  the  means,  I  cannot  tell ;  but " 

"But,"  said  the  vicar,  half  smiling,  half 
severely,  "you  must  not  disparage  the  priest- 
hood before  a  priest." 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it ;  and  I  beg  your  pardon : 
but  if  you  knew  the  cause  I  have  to  complain. 
The  slipperiness,  sir,  of  one  staggering  parson 
has  set  rolling  this  very  avalanche,  which  gathers 
size  every  moment,  and  threatens  to  overwhelm 
me  now,  unless  that  idle  dog  Lancelot  will  con- 
descend to  bestir  himself,  and  help  me." 

The  vicar  heard,  but  said  nothing. 

"Me,  at  least,  you  can  trust,"  he  answered 
proudly ;  and  honestly,  too  —  for  he  was  a  gentle- 
man by  birth  and  breeding,  unselfish  and  chiv- 
alrous to  a  fault  —  and  yet,  when  he  heard  the 
banker's  words,  it  was  as  if  the  inner  voice  had 
whispered  to  him,  "Thou  art  the  man!" 

"  When  do  you  go  down  ? "  again  asked  Mr. 
Smith.  "To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  was  writing  to 
Lancelot  when  you  were  announced !  but  the  post 
will  not  reach  him  till  to-morrow  at  noon,  and  we 
are  all  so  busy  here,  that  I  have  no  one  whom  I- 
can  trust  to  carry  down  an  express. " 

The  vicar  saw  what  was  coming.  Was  it  his 
good  angel  which  prompted  him  to  interpose  ? 

"  Why  not  send  a  parcel  by  rail  ?  " 

"I  can  trust  the  rail  as  far  as  D ;  but  I 

cannot  trust  those  coaches.  If  you  could  do  me 
so  great  a  kindness " 

"I  will.  I  can  start  by  the  one  o'clock  train, 
and  by  ten  o'clock  to-night  I  shall  be  in  Whit- 
ford." 


2OO  Yeast 

"  Are  you  certain  ? " 

"If  God  shall  please,  I  am  certain." 
['  "And  you  will  take  charge  of  a  letter?  Per- 
haps, too,  you  could  see  him  yourself;  and  tell 
him  —  you  see,  I  trust  you  with  everything  —  that 
my  fortune,  his  own  fortune,  depends  on  his  being 
here  to-morrow  morning.  He  must  start  to-night, 
sir  —  to-night,  tell  him,  if  there  were  twenty 
Miss  Lavingtons  in  Whitford  —  or  he  is  a  ruined 
man!" 

The  letter  was  written  and  put  into  the  vicar's 
hands,  with  a  hundred  entreaties  from  the  terrified 
banker.  A  cab  was  called,  and  the  clergyman 
rattled  off  to  the  railway  terminus. 

"Well,"  said  he  to  himself,  "God  has  indeed 
blessed  my  errand ;  giving,  as  always,  '  exceeding 
abundantly  more  than  we  are  able  to  ask  or 
think ! '  For  some  weeks,  at  least,  this  poor 
lamb  is  safe  from  the  destroyer's  clutches.  I 
must  improve  to  the  utmost  those  few  precious 
days  in  strengthening  her  in  her  holy  purpose. 
But,  after  all,  he  will  return,  daring  and  cun- 
ning as  ever;  and  then  will  not  the  fascination 
recommence  ? " 

And,  as  he  mused,  a  little  fiend  passed  by,  and 
whispered,  "Unless  he  comes  up  to-night,  he  is 
a  ruined  man." 

It  was  Friday,  and  the  vicar  had  thought  it  a 
fit  preparation  for  so  important  an  errand  to  taste 
no  food  that  day.  Weakness  and  hunger,  joined 
to  the  roar  and  bustle  of  London,  had  made  him 
excited,  nervous,  unable  to  control  his  thoughts, 
or  fight  against  a  stupefying  headache;  and  his 
self-weakened  will  punished  him,  by  yielding 
him  up  an  easy  prey  to  his  own  fancies. 


Thunderstorm  the  Second        201 

"Ay,"  he  thought,  "if  he  were  ruined,  after 
all,  it  would  be  well  for  God's  cause.  The 
Lavingtons,  at  least,  would  find  no  temptation  in 
his  wealth :  and  Argemone  —  she  is  too  proud,  too 
luxurious,  to  marry  a  beggar.  She  might  em- 
brace a  holy  poverty  for  the  sake  of  her  own  soul ; 
but  for  the  gratification  of  an  earthly  passion, 
never!  Base  and  carnal  delights  would  never 
tempt  her  so  far." 

Alas,  poor  pedant !  Among  all  that  thy  books 
taught  thee,  they  did  not  open  to  thee  much  of 
the  depths  of  that  human  heart  which  thy  dogmas 
taught  thee  to  despise  as  diabolic. 

Again  the  little  fiend  whispered : 

"  Unless  he  comes  up  to-night,  he  is  a  ruined 
man." 

"  And  what  if  he  is  ? "  thought  the  vicar. 
"Riches  are  a  curse;  and  poverty  a  blessing.  Is 
it  not  his  wealth  which  is  ruining  his  soul  ?  Idle- 
ness and  fulness  of  bread  have  made  him  what  he 
is  —  a  luxurious  and  self-willed  dreamer,  batten- 
ing on  his  own  fancies.  Were  it  not  rather  a  boon 
to  him  to  take  from  him  the  root  of  all  evil  ? " 

Most  true,  vicar.  And  yet  the  devil  was  at 
that  moment  transforming  himself  into  an  angel 
of  light  for  thee. 

But  the  vicar  was  yet  honest.  If  he  had 
thought  that  by  cutting  off  his  right  hand  he 
could  have  saved  Lancelot's  soul  (by  canonical 
methods,  of  course;  for  who  would  wish  to  save 
souls  in  any  other?),  he  would  have  done  it  with- 
out hesitation. 

Again  the  little  fiend  whispered : 

"  Unless  he  comes  up  to-night  he  is  a  ruined 
man." 

J— Vol.  V 


202  Yeast 

A  terrible  sensation  seized  him.  —  Why  should 
he  give  the  letter  to-night  ? 

"You  promised,"  whispered  the  inner  voice. 

"No,  I  did  not  promise  exactly,  in  so  many 
words;  that  ;s,  I  only  said  I  would  be  at  home 
to-night,  if  God  pleased.  And  what  if  God 
should  not  please?  —  I  promised  for  his  good. 
What  if,  on  second  thoughts,  it  should  be  better 
for  him  not  to  keep  my  promise?"  A  moment 
afterwards,  he  tossed  the  temptation  from  him 
indignantly:  but  back  it  came.  At  every  gaudy 
shop,  at  every  smoke -grimed  manufactory,  at  the 
face  of  every  anxious  victim  of  Mammon,  of  every 
sturdy,  cheerful  artisan,  the  fiend  winked  and 
pointed,  crying,  "And  what  if  he  be  ruined? 
Look  at  the  thousands  who  have,  and  are  miser- 
able —  at  the  millions  who  have  not,  and  are  no 
sadder  than  their  own  tyrants." 

Again  and  again  he  thrust  the  thought  from 
him,  but  more  and  more  weakly.  His  whole 
frame  shook;  the  perspiration  stood  on  his  fore- 
head. As  he  took  his  railway  ticket,  his  look 
was  so  haggard  and  painful  that  the  clerk  asked 
him  whether  he  were  ill.  The  train  was  just 
starting;  he  threw  himself  into  a  carriage  —  he 
would  have  locked  himself  in  if  he  could;  and 
felt  an  inexpressible  relief  when  he  found  him- 
self rushing  past  houses  and  market-gardens, 
whirled  onward,  whether  he  would  or  not,  in  the 
right  path  —  homeward. 

But  was  it  the  right  path  ?  for  again  the  temp- 
tation flitted  past  him.  He  threw  himself  back, 
and  tried  to  ask  counsel  of  One  above ;  but  there 
was  no  answer,  nor  any  that  regarded.  His  heart 
was  silent,  and  dark  as  midnight  fog.  Why 


Thunderstorm  the  Second        203 

should  there  have  been  an  answer?  He  had  not 
listened  to  the  voice  within.  Did  he  wish  for  a 
miracle  to  show  him  his  duty? 

"Not  that  I  care  for  detection,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "What  is  shame  to  me?  Is  it  not  a 
glory  to  be  evil-spoken  of  in  the  cause  of  God  ? 
How  can  the  world  appreciate  the  motives  of 
those  who  are  not  of  the  world  ?  —  the  divine  wis- 
dom of  the  serpent  —  at  once  the  saint's  peculiar 
weapon,  and  a  part  of  his  peculiar  cross,  when 
men  call  him  a  deceiver,  because  they  confound, 
forsooth,  his  spiritual  subtlety  with  their  earthly 
cunning.  Have  I  not  been  called  '  liar, '  '  hypo- 
crite,'  'Jesuit,'  often  enough  already,  to  harden 
me  towards  bearing  that  name  once  again  ? " 

That  led  him  into  sad  thoughts  of  his  last  few 
years'  career,  —  of  the  friends  and  pupils  whose 
secession  to  Rome  had  been  attributed  to  his 
hypocrisy,  his  "disguised  Romanism;"  and  then 
the  remembrance  of  poor  Luke  Smith  flashed 
across  him  for  the  first  time  since  he  left  the 
bank. 

"I  must  see  him,"  he  said  to  himself;  "I  must 
argue  with  him  face  to  face.  Who  knows  but 
that  it  may  be  given  even  to  my  unworthiness  to 
snatch  him  from  this  accursed  slough?" 

And  then  he  remembered  that  his  way  home 
lay  through  the  city  in  which  the  new  convert's 
parish  was  —  that  the  coach  stopped  there  to 
change  horses;  and  again  the  temptation  leapt 
up  again,  stronger  than  ever,  under  the  garb  of 
an  imperative  call  of  duty. 

He  made  no  determination  for  or  against  it. 
He  was  too  weak  in  body  and  mind  to  resist;  and 
in  a  half  sleep,  broken  with  an  aching,  terrified 


204  Yeast 

sense  of  something  wanting  which  he  could  not 
find,  he  was  swept  down  the  line,  got  on  the 
coach,  and  mechanically,  almost  without  know- 
ing it,  found  himself  set  down  at  the  city  of 

A ,    and   the   coach  rattling   away  down  the 

street. 

He  sprang  from  his  stupor,  and  called  madly 
after  it  —  ran  a  few  steps  — 

"You  might  as  well  try  to  catch  the  clouds, 
sir,"  said  the  ostler.  "Gemmen  should  make  up 
their  minds  afore  they  gets  down." 

Alas !  so  thought  the  vicar.  But  it  was  too 
late ;  and,  with  a  heavy  heart,  he  asked  the  way 
to  the  late  curate's  house. 

Thither  he  went.  Mr.  Luke  Smith  was  just 
at  dinner,  but  the  vicar  was,  nevertheless,  shown 
into  the  bachelor's  little  dining-room.  But  what 
was  his  disgust  and  disappointment  at  finding  his 
late  pupil  t$te-d-t£te  over  a  comfortable  fish-dinner, 
opposite  a  burly,  vulgar,  cunning-eyed  man,  with 
a  narrow  rim  of  muslin  turned  down  over  his  stiff 
cravat,  of  whose  profession  there  could  be  no 
doubt. 

"My  dearest  sir,"  said  the  new  convert,  spring- 
ing up  with  an  air  of  extreme  empressement,  "  what 
an  unexpected  pleasure!  Allow  me  to  introduce 
you  to  my  excellent  friend,  Padre  Bugiardo !  " 

The  padre  rose,  bowed  obsequiously,  "was 
overwhelmed  with  delight  at  being  at  last  intro- 
duced to  one  of  whom  he  had  heard  so  much," 
sat  down  again,  and  poured  himself  out  a  bumper 
of  sherry;  while  the  vicar  commenced  making 
the  best  of  a  bad  matter  by  joining  in  the  now 
necessary  business  of  eating. 

He  had  not  a  word  to  say  for  himself.     Poor 


Thunderstorm  the  Second        205 

Luke  was  particularly  jovial  and  flippant,  and 
startlingly  unlike  his  former  self.  The  padre 
went  on  staring  out  of  the  window,  and  talking 
in  a  loud  forced  tone  about  the  astonishing 
miracles  of  the  "Ecstatica"  and  "  Addolorata;" 
and  the  poor  vicar,  finding  the  purpose  for  which 
he  had  sacrificed  his  own  word  of  honor  utterly 
frustrated  by  the  priest's  presence,  sat  silent  and 
crestfallen  the  whole  evening. 

The  priest  had  no  intention  of  stirring.  The 
late  father-confessor  tried  to  outstay  his  new 
rival,  but  in  vain;  the  padre  deliberately  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  taking  a  bed,  and  the 
vicar,  with  a  heavy  heart,  rose  to  go  to  his 
inn. 

As  he  went  out  at  the  door,  he  caught  an  oppor- 
tunity of  saying  one  word  to  the  convert. 

"My  poor  Luke!  and  are  you  happy?  Tell  me 
honestly,  in  God's  sight  tell  me!" 

"Happier  than  ever  I  was  in  my  life!  No 
more  self-torture,  physical  or  mental,  now. 
These  good  priests  thoroughly  understand  poor 
human  nature,  I  can  assure  you." 

The  vicar  sighed,  for  the  speech  was  evidently 
meant  as  a  gentle  rebuke  to  himself.  But  the 
young  man  ran  on,  half  laughing : 

"  You  know  how  you  and  the  rest  used  to  tell 
us  what  a  sad  thing  it  was  that  we  were  all  cursed 
with  consciences,  —  what  a  fearful  miserable  bur- 
den moral  responsibility  was;  but  that  we  must 
submit  to  it  as  an  inevitable  evil.  Now  that 
burden  is  gone,  thank  God!  We  of  the  True 
Church  have  some  one  to  keep  our  consciences 
for  us.  The  padre  settles  all  about  what  is  right 
or  wrong,  and  we  slip  on  as  easily  as " 


206  Yeast 

"  A  hog  or  a  butterfly !  "  said  the  vicar,  bitterly. 

"Exactly,"  answered  Luke.  "And,  on  your 
own  showing,  are  clean  gainers  of  a  happy  life 
here,  not  to  mention  heaven  hereafter.  God 
bless  you!  We  shall  soon  see  you  one  of  us." 

"Never,  so  help  me  God!  "  said  the  vicar;  all 
the  more  fiercely  because  he  was  almost  at  that 
moment  of  the  young  man's  opinion. 

The  vicar  stepped  out  into  the  night.  The 
rain,  which  had  given  place  during  the  afternoon 
to  a  bright  sun  and  clear  chilly  evening,  had 
returned  with  double  fury.  The  wind  was  sweep- 
ing and  howling  down  the  lonely  streets,  and 
lashed  the  rain  into  his  face,  while  gray  clouds 
were  rushing  past  the  moon  like  terrified  ghosts 
across  the  awful  void  of  the  black  heaven.  Above 
him  gaunt  poplars  groaned  and  bent,  like  giants 
cowering  from  the  wrath  of  Heaven,  yet  rooted 
by  grim  necessity  to  their  place  of  torture.  The 
roar  and  tumult  without  him  harmonized  strangely 
with  the  discord  within.  He  staggered  and 
strode  along  the  plashy  pavement,  muttering  to 
himself  at  intervals : 

"Rest  for  the  soul?  peace  of  mind?  I  have 
been  promising  them  all  my  life  to  others  — 
have  I  found  them  myself?  And  here  is  this 
poor  boy  saying  that  he  has  gained  them  —  in  the 
very  barbarian  superstition  which  I  have  been 
anathematizing  to  him!  What  is  true,  at  this 
rate?  What  is  false?  Is  anything  right  or 
wrong?  except  in  as  far  as  men  feel  it  to  be  right 
or  wrong.  Else  whence  does  this  poor  fellow's 
peace  come,  or  the  peace  of  many  a  convert  more  ? 
They  have  all,  one  by  one,  told  me  the  same 
story.  And  is  not  a  religion  to  be  known  by  its 


Thunderstorm  the  Second        207 

fruits  ?  Are  they  not  right  in  going  where  they 
can  get  peace  of  mind  ?  " 

Certainly,  vicar.  If  peace  of  mind  be  the  sum- 
mum  bonum,  and  religion  is  merely  the  science  of 
self-satisfaction,  they  are  right;  and  your  wisest 
plan  will  be  to  follow  them  at  once,  or  failing 
that,  to  apply  to  the  next  substitute  that  can  be 
discovered  —  alcohol  and  opium. 

As  he  went  on,  talking  wildly  to  himself,  he 
passed  the  Union  Workhouse.  Opposite  the 
gate,  under  the  lee  of  a  wall,  some  twenty  men, 
women,  and  children  were  huddled  together  on 
the  bare  ground.  They  had  been  refused  lodging 
in  the  workhouse,  and  were  going  to  pass  the 
night  in  that  situation.  As  he  came  up  to  them, 
coarse  jests,  and  snatches  of  low  drinking-songs, 
ghastly  as  the  laughter  of  lost  spirits  in  the  pit, 
mingled  with  the  feeble  wailings  of  some  child  of 
shame.  The  vicar  recollected  how  he  had  seen 
the  same  sight  at  the  door  of  Kensington  Work- 
house, walking  home  one  night  in  company  with 
Luke  Smith;  and  how,  too,  he  had  commented  to 
him  on  that  fearful  sign  of  the  times,  and  had 
somewhat  unfairly  drawn  a  contrast  between  the 
niggard  cruelty  of  "popular  Protestantism,"  and 
the  fancied  "  liberality  of  the  middle  age. "  What 
wonder  if  his  pupil  had  taken  him  at  his  word  ? 

Delighted  to  escape  from  his  own  thoughts  by 
anything  like  action,  he  pulled  out  his  purse  to 
give  an  alms.  There  was  no  silver  in  it,  but 
only  some  fifteen  or  twenty  sovereigns,  which  he 
that  day  received  as  payment  for  some  bitter 
reviews  in  a  leading  religious  periodical.  Every- 
thing that  night  seemed  to  shame  and  confound 
him  more.  As  he  touched  the  money,  there 


208  Yeast 

sprang  up  in  his  mind  in  an  instant  the  thought 
of  the  articles  which  had  procured  it;  by  one  of 
those  terrible,  searching  inspirations,  in  which 
the  light  which  lighteth  every  man  awakes  as  a 
lightning-flash  of  judgment,  he  saw  them,  and  his 
own  heart,  for  one  moment,  as  they  were ;  —  their 
blind  prejudice;  their  reckless  imputations  of 
motives;  their  wilful  concealment  of  any  palliat- 
ing clauses;  their  party  nicknames,  given  without 
a  shudder  at  the  terrible  accusations  which  they 
conveyed.  And  then  the  indignation,  the  shame, 
the  reciprocal  bitterness  which  those  articles 
would  excite,  tearing  still  wider  the  bleeding 
wounds  of  that  Church  which  they  professed  to 
defend !  And  then,  in  this  case,  too,  the  thought 
rushed  across  him,  "  What  if  I  should  have  been 
wrong  and  my  adversary  right  ?  What  if  I  have 
made  the  heart  of  the  righteous  sad  whom  God 
has  not  made  sad  ?  I !  to  have  been  dealing  out 
Heaven's  thunders,  as  if  I  were  infallible!  I! 
who  am  certain  at  this  moment  of  no  fact  in 
heaven  or  earth,  except  my  own  untruth !  God ! 
who  am  I  that  I  should  judge  another  ? "  And 
the  coins  seemed  to  him  like  the  price  of  blood 
—  he  fancied  that  he  felt  them  red-hot  to  his 
hand,  and,  in  his  eagerness  to  get  rid  of  the 
accursed  thing,  he  dealt  it  away  fiercely  to  the 
astonished  group,  amid  whining  and  flattery, 
wrangling  and  ribaldry;  and  then,  not  daring  to 
wait  and  see  the  use  to  which  his  money  would 
be  put,  hurried  off  to  the  inn,  and  tried  in  uneasy 
slumbers  to  forget  the  time,  until  the  mail  passed 
through  at  daybreak  on  its  way  to  Whitford. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  VILLAGE   REVEL 

AT  dusk  that  same  evening  the  two  had  started 
for  the  village  fair.  A  velveteen  shooting- 
jacket,  a  pair  of  corduroy  trousers,  and  a  waist- 
coat, furnished  by  Tregarva,  covered  with  flowers 
of  every  imaginable  hue,  tolerably  disguised  Lance- 
lot, who  was  recommended  by  his  conductor  to 
keep  his  hands  in  his  pockets  as  much  as  possible, 
lest  their  delicacy,  which  was,  as  it  happened, 
not  very  remarkable,  might  betray  him.  As  they 
walked  together  along  the  plashy  turnpike  road, 
overtaking,  now  and  then,  groups  of  two  or  three 
who  were  out  on  the  same  errand  as  themselves, 
Lancelot  could  not  help  remarking  to  the  keeper 
how  superior  was  the  look  of  comfort  in  the  boys 
and  young  men,  with  their  ruddy  cheeks  and  smart 
dresses,  to  the  worn  and  haggard  appearance  of 
the  elder  men. 

"  Let  them  alone,  poor  fellows,"  said  Tregarva ; 
"it  won't  last  long.  When  they've  got  two  or 
three  children  at  their  heels,  they  '11  look  as  thin 
and  shabby  as  their  own  fathers." 

"They  must  spend  a  great  deal  of  money  on 
their  clothes." 

"  And  on  their  stomachs,  too,  sir.  They  never 
lay  by  a  farthing ;  and  I  don't  see  how  they  can, 
when  their  club-money's  paid,  and  their  insides 
are  well  filled." 


2 1  o  Yeast 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  they  actually  have 
not  as  much  to  eat  after  they  marry  ?  " 

"  Indeed  and  I  do,  sir.  They  get  no  more  wages 
afterwards  round  here,  and  have  four  or  five  to 
clothe  and  feed  off  the  same  money  that  used  to 
keep  one ;  and  that  sum  won't  take  long  to  work 
out,  I  think." 

"  But  do  they  not  in  some  places  pay  the  married 
men  higher  wages  than  the  unmarried?" 

"  That 's  a  worse  trick  still,  sir ;  for  it  tempts 
the  poor  thoughtless  boys  to  go  and  marry  the 
first  girl  they  can  get  hold  of;  and  it  don't  want 
much  persuasion  to  make  them  do  that  at  any 
time." 

"But  why  don't  the  clergymen  teach  them  to 
put  into  the  savings  banks  ?  " 

"  One  here  and  there,  sir,  says  what  he  can, 
though  it 's  of  very  little  use.  Besides,  every  one 
is  afraid  of  savings  banks  now;  not  a  year  but 
one  reads  of  some  breaking  and  the  lawyers  going 
off  with  the  earnings  of  the  poor.  And  if  they 
didn't,  youth's  a  foolish  time  at  best;  and  the 
carnal  man  will  be  hankering  after  amusement,  sir 
—  amusement." 

"  And  no  wonder,"  said  Lancelot ;  "  at  all  events, 
I  should  not  think  they  got  much  of  it.  But  it 
does  seem  strange  that  no  other  amusement  can 
be  found  for  them  than  the  beer-shop.  Can't  they 
read?  Can't  they  practise  light  and  interesting 
handicrafts  at  home,  as  the  German  peasantry 
do?" 

"  Who  '11  teach  'em,  sir  ?  From  the  plough-tail 
to  the  reaping-hook,  and  back  again,  is  all  they 
know.  Besides,  sir,  they  are  not  like  us  Cornish; 
they  are  a  stupid  pig-headed  generation  at  the 


The  Village  Revel  211 

best,  these  south  countrymen.  They're  grown-up 
babies  who  want  the  parson  and  the  squire  to  be 
leading  them,  and  preaching  to  them,  and  spur- 
ring them  on,  and  coaxing  them  up,  every  moment. 
And  as  for  scholarship,  sir,  a  boy  leaves  school  at 
nine  or  ten  to  follow  the  horses ;  and  between  that 
time  and  his  wedding-day  he  forgets  every  word 
he  ever  learnt,  and  becomes,  for  the  most  part,  as 
thorough  a  heathen  savage  at  heart  as  those  wild 
Indians  in  the  Brazils  used  to  be." 

"  And  then  we  call  them  civilized  Englishmen ! " 
said  Lancelot.  "  We  can  see  that  your  Indian  is 
a  savage,  because  he  wears  skins  and  feathers; 
but  your  Irish  cottar  or  your  English  laborer, 
because  he  happens  to  wear  a  coat  and  trousers, 
is  to  be  considered  a  civilized  man." 

"  It 's  the  way  of  the  world,  sir,"  said  Tregarva, 
"judging  carnal  judgment,  according  to  the  sight 
of  its  own  eyes ;  always  looking  at  the  outsides 
of  things  and  men,  sir,  and  never  much  deeper. 
But  as  for  reading,  sir,  it's  all  very  well  for  me, 
who  have  been  a  keeper  and  dawdled  about  like  a 
gentleman  with  a  gun  over  my  arm ;  but  did  you 
ever  do  a  good  day's  farm-work  in  your  life  ?  If 
you  had,  man  or  boy,  you  would  n't  have  been 
game  for  much  reading  when  you  got  home ;  you  'd 
do  just  what  these  poor  fellows  do,  —  tumble  into 
bed  at  eight  o'clock,  hardly  waiting  to  take  your 
clothes  off,  knowing  that  you  must  turn  up  again  at 
five  o'clock  the  next  morning  to  get  a  breakfast  of 
bread,  and  perhaps  a  dab  of  the  squire's  dripping, 
and  then  back  to  work  again ;  and  so  on,  day  after 
day,  sir,  week  after  week,  year  after  year,  without  a 
hope  or  a  chance  of  being  anything  but  what  you 
are,  and  only  too  thankful  if  you  can  get  work 


2 1 2  Yeast 

to  break  your  back,  and  catch  the  rheumatism 
over." 

"  But  do  you  mean  to  say  that  their  labor  is  so 
severe  and  incessant?  " 

"  It 's  only  God's  blessing  if  it  is  incessant,  sir, 
for  if  it  stops,  they  starve,  or  go  to  the  house  to  be 
worse  fed  than  the  thieves  in  gaol.  And  as  for  its 
being  severe,  there  's  many  a  boy,  as  their  mothers 
will  tell  you,  comes  home  night  after  night,  too  tired 
to  eat  their  suppers,  and  tumble,  fasting,  to  bed  in 
the  same  foul  shirt  which  they  Ve  been  working 
in  all  the  day,  never  changing  their  rag  of  calico 
from  week's  end  to  week's  end,  or  washing  the 
skin  that's  under  it  once  in  seven  years." 

"No  wonder,"  said  Lancelot,  "  that  such  a  life 
of  drudgery  makes  them  brutal  and  reckless." 

"  No  wonder,  indeed,  sir :  they  Ve  no  time  to 
think ;  they  're  born  to  be  machines,  and  machines 
they  must  be ;  and  I  think,  sir,"  he  added  bitterly, 
"  it 's  God's  mercy  that  they  dare  n't  think.  It 's 
God's  mercy  that  they  don't  feel.  Men  that  write 
books  and  talk  at  elections  call  this  a  free  country, 
and  say  that  the  poorest  and  meanest  has  a  free 
opening  to  rise  and  become  prime  minister,  if  he 
can.  But  you  see,  sir,  the  misfortune  is,  that  in 
practice  he  can't;  for  one  who  gets  into  a  gentle- 
man's family,  or  into  a  little  shop,  and  so  saves  a 
few  pounds,  fifty  know  that  they  Ve  no  chance 
before  them,  but  day-laborer  born,  day-laborer 
live,  from  hand  to  mouth,  scraping  and  pinching 
to  get  not  meat  and  beer  even,  but  bread  and 
potatoes ;  and  then,  at  the  end  of  it  all,  for  a 
worthy  reward,  half-a-crown  a  week  of  parish  pay 
—  or  the  workhouse.  That 's  a  lively  hopeful 
prospect  for  a  Christian  man ! " 


The  Village  Revel  213 

"  But,"  said  Lancelot,  "  I  thought  this  new  poor- 
law  was  to  stir  them  up  to  independence  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sir,  the  old  lav/  has  bit  too  deep :  it  made 
them  slaves  and  beggars  at  heart.  It  taught  them 
not  to  be  ashamed  of  parish  pay  —  to  demand  it 
as  a  right." 

"  And  so  it  is  their  right,"  said  Lancelot.  "  In 
God's  name,  if  a  country  is  so  ill-constituted  that 
it  cannot  find  its  own  citizens  in  work,  it  is  bound 
to  find  them  in  food." 

"  Maybe,  sir,  maybe.  God  knows  I  don't  grudge 
it  them.  It 's  a  poor  pittance  at  best,  when  they 
have  got  it.  But  don't  you  see,  sir,  how  all  poor- 
laws,  old  or  new  either,  suck  the  independent  spirit 
out  of  a  man;  how  they  make  the  poor  wretch 
reckless ;  how  they  tempt  him  to  spend  every  extra 
farthing  in  amusement?" 

"How  then?" 

"  Why,  he  is  always  tempted  to  say  to  himself, 
1  Whatever  happens  to  me,  the  parish  must  keep 
me.  If  I  am  sick  it  must  doctor  me;  if  I  am  worn 
out  it  must  feed  me;  if  I  die  it  must  bury  me; 
if  I  leave  my  children  paupers  the  parish  must 
look  after  them,  and  they  '11  be  as  well  off  with 
the  parish  as  they  were  with  me.  Now  they  Ve 
only  got  just  enough  to  keep  body  and  soul  to- 
gether, and  the  parish  can't  give  them  less  than 
that  What 's  the  use  of  cutting  myself  off  from 
sixpenny-worth  of  pleasure  here,  and  sixpenny- 
worth  there?  I  'm  not  saving  money  for  my  chil- 
dren, 1  'm  only  saving  the  farmers'  rates1.  There  it 
is,  sir,"  said  Tregarva ;  "that's  the  bottom  of  it, 
sir,  — '  I  'm  only  saving  the  farmers'  rates.  Let  us 
eat  and  drink,  for  to-morrow  we  die !  ' " 

"  I  don't  see  my  way  out  of  it,"  said  Lancelot. 


2 1 4  Yeast 

"  So  says  everybody,  sir.  But  I  should  have 
thought  those  members  of  parliament,  and  states- 
men, and  university  scholars  have  been  set  up  in 
the  high  places,  out  of  the  wood  where  we  are 
all  struggling  and  scrambling,  just  that  they 
might  see  their  way  out  of  it;  and  if  they 
don't,  sir,  and  that  soon,  as  sure  as  God  is  in 
heaven,  these  poor  fellows  will  cut  their  way  out 
of  it." 

"  And  blindfolded  and  ignorant  as  they  are," 
said  Lancelot,  "  they  will  be  certain  to  cut  their 
way  out  just  in  the  wrong  direction." 

"  I  'm  not  so  sure  of  that,  sir,"  said  Tregarva, 
lowering  his  voice.  "What  is  written?  That 
there  is  One  who  hears  the  desire  of  the  poor. 
'  Lord,  Thou  preparest  their  hearts,  and  Thine 
ear  hearkeneth  thereto,  to  help  the  fatherless  and 
poor  unto  their  right,  that  the  man  of  the  earth 
be  no  more  exalted  against  them.' " 

"  Why,  you  are  talking  like  any  Chartist, 
Tregarva !  " 

"Am  I,  sir?  I  haven't  heard  much  Scripture 
quoted  among  them  myself,  poor  fellows;  but 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  sir,  I  don't  know  what 
I  am  becoming.  I  'm  getting  half  mad  with  all 
I  see  going  on  and  not  going  on ;  and  you  will 
agree,  sir,  that  what's  happened  this  day  can't 
have  done  much  to  cool  my  temper  or  brighten 
my  hopes ;  though,  God 's  my  witness,  there  '3 
no  spite  in  me  for  my  own  sake.  But  what  makes 
me  maddest  of  all,  sir,  is  to  see  that  everybody 
sees  these  evils,  except  just  the  men  who  can 
cure  them  —  the  squires  and  the  clergy." 

"  Why  surely,  Tregarva,  there  are  hundreds,  if 
not  thousands,  of  clergymen  and  landlords  work- 


The  Village  Revel  2 1 5 

ing  heart  and  soul  at  this  moment,  to  better  the 
condition  of  the  laboring  classes !  " 

"  Ay,  sir,  they  see  the  evils,  and  yet  they  don't 
see  them.  They  do  not  see  what  is  the  matter 
with  the  poor  man;  and  the  proof  of  it  is,  sir, 
that  the  poor  have  no  confidence  in  them.  They  '11 
take  their  alms,  but  they'll  hardly  take  their 
schooling,  and  their  advice  they  won't  take  at 
all.  And  why  is  it,  sir?  Because  the  poor  have 
got  in  their  heads  in  these  days  a  strange  con- 
fused fancy,  maybe,  but  still  a  deep  and  a  fierce  one, 
that  they  have  n't  got  what  they  call  their  rights. 
If  you  were  to  raise  the  wages  of  every  man 
in  this  country  from  nine  to  twelve  shillings  a  week 
to-morrow,  you  would  n't  satisfy  them  ;  at  least, 
the  only  ones  whom  you  would  satisfy  would  be 
the  mere  hogs  among  them,  who,  as  long  as  they 
can  get  a  full  stomach,  care  for  nothing  else." 

"What,  in  Heaven's  name,  do  they  want?" 
asked  Lancelot. 

"They  hardly  know  yet,  sir;  but  they  know 
well  what  they  don't  want.  The  question  with 
them,  sir,  believe  me,  is  not  so  much,  How  shall 
we  get  better  fed  and  better  housed,  but  whom 
shall  we  depend  upon  for  our  food  and  for  our 
house  ?  Why  should  we  depend  on  the  will  and 
fancy  of  any  man  for  our  rights?  They  are 
asking  ugly  questions  among  themselves,  sir,  about 
what  those  two  words,  rent  and  taxes,  mean,  and 
about  what  that  same  strange  word,  freedom, 
means.  Right  or  wrong,  they  Ve  got  the  thought 
into  their  heads,  and  it 's  growing  there,  and  they 
will  find  an  answer  for  it.  Depend  upon  it,  sir,  I 
tell  you  a  truth,  and  they  expect  a  change.  You 
will  hear  them  talk  of  it  to-night,  sir,  if  you  Ve  luck." 


2 1 6  Yeast 

"  We  all  expect  a  change,  for  that  matter/'  said 
Lancelot  "  That  feeling  is  common  to  all  classes 
and  parties  just  now." 

Tregarva  took  off  his  hat. 

"  '  For  the  word  of  the  Lord  hath  spoken  it.' 
Do  you  know,  sir,  I  long  at  times  that  I  did 
agree  with  those  Chartists?  If  I  did  I'd  turn 
lecturer  to-morrow.  How  a  man  could  speak  out 
then !  If  he  saw  any  door  of  hope,  any  way 
of  salvation  for  these  poor  fellows,  even  if  it 
was  nothing  better  than  salvation  by  act  of 
parliament !  " 

"But  why  don't  you  trust  the  truly  worthy 
among  the  clergy  and  the  gentry  to  leaven  their 
own  ranks  and  bring  all  right  in  time?" 

"  Because,  sir,  they  seem  to  be  going  the  way 
only  to  make  things  worse.  The  people  have  been 
so  dependent  on  them  heretofore,  that  they  have 
become  thorough  beggars.  You  can  have  no 
knowledge,  sir,  of  the  whining,  canting,  deceit,  and 
lies  which  those  poor  miserable  laborers'  wives  palm 
on  charitable  ladies.  If  they  were  n't  angels,  some 
of  them,  they  'd  lock  up  their  purses  and  never 
give  away  another  farthing.  And,  sir,  these  free- 
schools,  and  these  penny-clubs,  and  clothing  clubs, 
and  these  heaps  of  money  which  are  given  away, 
all  make  the  matter  worse  and  worse.  They  make 
the  laborer  fancy  that  he  is  not  to  depend  upon  God 
and  his  own  right  hand,  but  on  what  his  wife  can 
worm  out  of  the  good  nature  of  the  rich.  Why, 
sir,  they  growl  as  insolently  now  at  the  parson  or 
the  squire's  wife  if  they  don't  get  as  much  money 
as  their  neighbors,  as  they  used  to  at  the  parish 
vestrymen  under  the  old  law.  Look  at  that  Lord 
Vieuxbois,  sir,  as  sweet  a  gentleman  as  ever  God 


The  Village  Revel  217 

made.  It  used  to  do  me  good  to  walk  behind  him 
when  he  came  over  here  shooting,  just  to  hear  the 
gentle  kind-hearted  way  in  which  he  used  to  speak 
to  every  old  soul  he  met.  He  spends  his  whole 
life  and  time  about  the  poor,  I  hear.  But,  sir,  as 
sure  as  you  live  he 's  making  his  people  slaves  and 
humbugs.  He  does  n't  see,  sir,  that  they  want  to 
be  raised  bodily  out  of  this  miserable  hand-to- 
mouth  state,  to  be  brought  nearer  up  to  him,  and 
set  on  a  footing  where  they  can  shift  for  them- 
selves. Without  meaning  it,  sir,  all  his  boundless 
charities  are  keeping  the  people  down,  and  telling 
them  they  must  stay  down,  and  not  help  them- 
selves, but  wait  for  what  he  gives  them.  He  fats 
prize-laborers,  sir,  just  as  Lord  Minchampstead 
fats  prize-oxen  and  pigs." 

Lancelot  could  not  help  thinking  of  that  amus- 
ingly inconsistent,  however  well-meant,  scene  in 
"  Coningsby,"  in  which  Mr.  Lyle  is  represented  as 
trying  to  restore  "the  independent  order  of  peasan- 
try," by  making  them  the  receivers  of  public  alms 
at  his  own  gate,  as  if  they  had  been  middle-aged 
serfs  or  vagabonds,  and  not  citizens  of  modern 
England. 

"  It  may  suit  the  Mr.  Lyles  of  this  age,"  thought 
Lancelot,  "  to  make  the  people  constantly  and 
visibly  comprehend  that  property  is  their  protector 
and  their  friend,  but  I  question  whether  it  will  suit 
the  people  themselves,  unless  they  can  make  prop- 
erty understand  that  it  owes  them  something  more 
definite  than  protection." 

Saddened  by  this  conversation,  which  had  helped 
to  give  another  shake  to  the  easy-going  compla- 
cency with  which  Lancelot  had  been  used  to  con- 
template the  world  below  him,  and  look  on  its  evils 


2i  8  Yeast 

as  necessaries,  ancient  and  fixed  as  the  universe, 
he  entered  the  village  fair,  and  was  a  little  disap- 
pointed at  his  first  glimpse  of  the  village-green. 
Certainly  his  expectations  had  not  been  very  ex- 
alted ;  but  there  had  run  through  them  a  hope  of 
something  melodramatic,  dreams  of  May-pole 
dancing  and  athletic  games,  somewhat  of  village- 
belle  rivalry,  of  the  Corin  and  Sylvia  school ;  or, 
failing  that,  a  few  Touchstones  and  Audreys,  some 
genial  earnest  buffo  humor  here  and  there.  But 
there  did  not  seem  much  likelihood  of  it.  Two  or 
three  apple  and  gingerbread  stalls,  from  which 
draggled  children  were  turning  slowly  and  wistfully 
away  to  go  home ;  a  booth  full  of  trumpery  fair- 
ings, in  front  of  which  tawdry  girls  were  coaxing 
maudlin  youths,  with  faded  southernwood  in  their 
button-holes ;  another  long  low  booth,  from  every 
crevice  of  which  reeked  odors  of  stale  beer  and 
smoke,  by  courtesy  denominated  tobacco,  to  the 
treble  accompaniment  of  a  jigging  fiddle  and  a 
tambourine,  and  the  bass  one  of  grumbled  oaths 
and  curses  within  —  these  were  the  means  of  relaxa- 
tion which  the  piety,  freedom,  and  civilization  of 
fourteen  centuries,  from  Hengist  to  Queen  Victoria, 
had  devised  and  made  possible  for  the  English 
peasant ! 

"  There  seems  very  little  here  to  see,"  said 
Lancelot,  half  peevishly. 

"  I  think,  sir,"  quoth  Tregarva,  "  that  very  thing 
is  what's  most  worth  seeing." 

Lancelot  could  not  help,  even  at  the  risk  of 
detection,  investing  capital  enough  in  sugar-plums 
and  gingerbread,  to  furnish  the  urchins  around 
with  the  material  for  a  whole  carnival  of  stomach- 
aches; and  he  felt  a  great  inclination  to  clear  the 


The  Village  Revel  219 

fairing-stall  in  a  like  manner,  on  behalf  of  the  poor 
bedizened  sickly-looking  girls  round,  but  he  was 
afraid  of  the  jealousy  of  some  beer-bemuddled 
swain.  The  ill-looks  of  the  young  girls  surprised 
him  much.  Here  and  there  smiled  a  plump  rosy 
face  enough ;  but  the  majority  seemed  under-sized, 
under-fed,  utterly  wanting  in  grace,  vigor,  and 
what  the  penny-a-liners  call  "  rude  health."  He 
remarked  it  to  Tregarva.  The  keeper  smiled 
mournfully. 

"  You  see  those  little  creatures  dragging  home 
babies  in  arms  nearly  as  big  as  themselves,  sir. 
That  and  bad  food,  want  of  milk  especially, 
accounts  for  their  growing  up  no  bigger  than  they 
do;  and  as  for  their  sad  countenances,  sir,  most 
of  them  must  carry  a  lighter  conscience  before 
they  carry  a  brighter  face. " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  asked  Lancelot. 

"The  clergyman  who  enters  the  weddings  and 
the  baptisms  knows  well  enough  what  I  mean, 
sir.  But  we  '11  go  into  that  booth,  if  you  want  to 
see  the  thick  of  it,  sir;  that's  to  say,  if  you're 
not  ashamed. " 

"  I  hope  we  need  neither  of  us  do  anything  to 
be  ashamed  of  there;  and  as  for  seeing,  I  begin 
to  agree  with  you,  that  what  makes  the  whole 
thing  most  curious  is  its  intense  dulness." 

"  What  upon  earth  is  that  ? " 

"  I  say,  look  out  there ! " 

"Well,  you  look  out  yourself!" 

This  was  caused  by  a  violent  blow  across  the 
shins  with  a  thick  stick,  the  deed  of  certain 
drunken  wiseacres  who  were  persisting  in  play- 
ing in  the  dark  the  never  very  lucrative  game  of 
three  sticks  a  penny,  conducted  by  a  couple  of 


220  Yeast 

gipsies.  Poor  fellows !  there  was  one  excuse  for 
them.  It  was  the  only  thing  there  to  play  at, 
except  a  set  of  skittles;  and  on  those  they  had 
lost  their  money  every  Saturday  night  for  the 
last  seven  years  each  at  his  own  village  beer- 
shop. 

So  into  the  booth  they  turned ;  and  as  soon  as 
Lancelot's  eyes  were  accustomed  to  the  reeking 
atmosphere,  he  saw  seated  at  two  long  temporary 
tables  of  board,  fifty  or  sixty  of  "My  brethren," 
as  clergymen  call  them  in  their  sermons,  wrang- 
ling, stupid,  beery,  with  sodden  eyes  and  droop- 
ing lips  —  interspersed  with  more  girls  and 
brazen-faced  women,  with  dirty  flowers  in  their 
caps,  whose  whole  business  seemed  to  be  to  cast 
jealous  looks  at  each  other,  and  defend  them- 
selves from  the  coarse  overtures  of  their  swains. 

Lancelot  had  been  already  perfectly  astonished 
at  the  foulness  of  language  which  prevailed ;  and 
the  utter  absence  of  anything  like  chivalrous 
respect,  almost  of  common  decency,  towards 
women.  But  lo!  the  language  of  the  elder 
women  was  quite  as  disgusting  as  that  of  the 
men,  if  not  worse.  He  whispered  a  remark  on 
the  point  to  Tregarva,  who  shook  his  head. 

"It's  the  field-work,  sir  — the  field-work,  that 
does  it  all.  They  get  accustomed  there  from 
their  childhood  to  hear  words  whose  very  mean- 
ings they  shouldn't  know;  and  the  elder  teach 
the  younger  ones,  and  the  married  ones  are 
worst  of  all.  It  wears  them  out  in  body,  sir, 
that  field-work,  and  makes  them  brutes  in  soul 
and  in  manners." 

"Why  don't  they  give  it  up?  Why  don't  the 
respectable  ones  set  their  faces  against  it?" 


The  Village  Revel  221 

"They  can't  afford  it,  sir.  They  must  go 
a-field,  or  go  hungered,  most  of  them.  And  they 
get  to  like  the  gossip  and  scandal,  and  coarse  fun 
of  it,  while  their  children  are  left  at  home  to 
play  in  the  roads,  or  fall  into  the  fire,  as  plenty 
do  every  year." 

"Why  not  at  school?" 

"  The  big  ones  are  kept  at  home,  sir,  to  play  at 
nursing  those  little  ones  who  are  too  young  to  go. 
Oh,  sir,"  he  added,  in  a  tone  of  deep  feeling, 
"it  is  very  little  of  a  father's  care,  or  a  mother's 
love,  that  a  laborer's  child  knows  in  these  days !" 

Lancelot  looked  round  the  booth  with  a  hope- 
less feeling.  There  was  awkward  dancing  going 
on  at  the  upper  end.  He  was  too  much  sickened 
to  go  and  look  at  it.  He  began  examining  the 
faces  and  foreheads  of  the  company,  and  was 
astonished  at  the  first  glance  by  the  lofty  and 
ample  development  of  brain  in  at  least  one  half. 
There  were  intellects  there  —  or  rather  capacities 
of  intellect,  capable,  surely,  of  anything,  had  not 
the  promise  of  the  brow  been  almost  always 
belied  by  the  loose  and  sensual  lower  features. 
They  were  evidently  rather  a  degraded  than  an 
undeveloped  race.  "The  low  foreKead  of  the 
Kabyle  and  Koord,"  thought  Lancelot,  "is  com- 
pensated by  the  grim  sharp  lip,  and  glittering 
eye,  which  prove  that  all  the  small  capabilities 
of  the  man  have  been  called  out  into  clear  and 
vigorous  action :  but  here  the  very  features  them- 
selves, both  by  what  they  have  and  what  they 
want,  testify  against  that  society  which  carelessly 
wastes  her  most  precious  wealth,  the  manhood  of 
her  masses !  Tregarva !  you  have  observed  a 
good  many  things  —  did  you  ever  observe  whether 


222  Yeast 

the  men  with  the  large  foreheads  were  better 
than  the  men  with  the  small  ones  ? " 

"Ay,  sir,  I  know  what  you  are  driving  at. 
I  've  heard  of  that  new-fangled  notion  of  scholars, 
which,  if  you'll  forgive  my  plain  speaking, 
expects  man's  brains  to  do  the  work  of  God's 
grace." 

"  But  what  have  you  remarked  ? " 

"All  I  ever  saw  was,  that  the  stupid-looking 
ones  were  the  greatest  blackguards,  and  the 
clever-looking  ones  the  greatest  rogues." 

Lancelot  was  rebuked,  but  not  surprised.  He 
had  been  for  some  time  past  suspecting,  from  the 
bitter  experience  of  his  own  heart,  the  favorite 
modern  theory  which  revives  the  Neo-Platonisra 
of  Alexandria,  by  making  intellect  synonymous 
with  virtue,  and  then  jumbling,  like  poor  bewil- 
dered Proclus,  the  "physical  understanding"  of 
the  brain  with  the  pure  "intellect"  of  the 
spirit. 

"You  '11  see  something,  if  you  look  round,  sir, 
a  great  deal  easier  to  explain  —  and,  I  should 
have  thought,  a  great  deal  easier  to  cure  —  than 
want  of  wits." 

"  And  what  is  that  ? " 

"How  different-looking  the  young  ones  are 
from  their  fathers,  and  still  more  from  their 
grandfathers!  Look  at  those  three  or  four  old 
grammers  talking  together  there.  For  all  their 
being  shrunk  with  age  and  weather,  you  won't 
see  such  fine-grown  men  anywhere  else  in  this 
booth." 

It  was  too  true.  Lancelot  recollected  now 
having  remarked  it  before  when  at  church;  and 
having  wondered  why  almost  all  the  youths  were 


The  Village  Revel  223 

so  much  smaller,  clumsier,  lower-brained,  and 
weaker-jawed  than  their  elders. 

"  Why  is  it,  Tregarva  ?  " 

"Worse  food,  worse  lodging,  worse  nursing  — 
and,  I  'm  sore  afraid,  worse  blood.  There  was  too 
much  filthiness  and  drunkenness  went  on  in  the 
old  war-times,  not  to  leave  a  taint  behind  it,  for 
many  a  generation.  The  prosperity  of  fools  shall 
destroy  them  !  " 

"Oh!"  thought  Lancelot,  "for  some  young 
sturdy  Lancashire  or  Lothian  blood,  to  put  new 
life  into  the  old  frozen  South  Saxon  veins  !  Even 
a  drop  of  the  warm  enthusiastic  Celtic  would  be 
better  than  none.  Perhaps  this  Irish  immigration 
may  do  some  good,  after  all." 

Perhaps  it  may,  Lancelot.  Let  us  hope  so, 
since  it  is  pretty  nearly  inevitable. 

Sadder  and  sadder,  Lancelot  tried  to  listen  to 
the  conversation  of  the  men  round  him.  To  his 
astonishment  he  hardly  understood  a  word  of  it. 
It  was  half  articulate,  nasal,  guttural,  made  up 
almost  entirely  of  vowels,  like  the  speech  of 
savages.  He  had  never  before  been  struck  with 
the  significant  contrast  between  the  sharp,  clearly 
defined  articulation,  the  vivid  and  varied  tones  of 
the  gentleman,  or  even  of  the  London  street-boy 
when  compared  with  the  coarse,  half-formed 
growls,  as  of  a  company  of  seals,  which  he  heard 
round  him.  That  single  fact  struck  him,  per- 
haps, more  deeply  than  any;  it  connected  itself 
with  many  of  his  physiological  fancies ;  it  was 
the  parent  of  many  thoughts  and  plans  of  his 
after-life.  Here  and  there  he  could  distinguish 
a  half  sentence.  An  old  shrunken  man  opposite 
him  was  drawing  figures  in  the  spilt  beer  with 


224  Yeast 

his  pipe-stem,  and  discoursing  of  the  glorious 
times  before  the  great  war,  "when  there  was 
more  food  than  there  were  mouths,  and  more 
work  than  there  were  hands."  "Poor  human 
nature ! "  thought  Lancelot,  as  he  tried  to  follow 
one  of  those  unintelligible  discussions  about  the 
relative  prices  of  the  loaf  and  the  bushel  of  flour, 
which  ended,  as  usual,  in  more  swearing,  and  more 
quarrelling,  and  more  beer  to  make  it  up  —  "  Poor 
human  nature !  always  looking  back,  as  the  German 
sage  says,  to  some  fancied  golden  age,  never  look- 
ing forward  to  the  real  one  which  is  coining ! " 

"But  I  say,  vather,"  drawled  out  some  one, 
"they  say  there 's  a  sight  more  money  in  England 
now  than  there  was  afore  the  war-time." 

"Eees,  booy,"  said  the  old  man;  "but  it's  got 
into  too  few  hands." 

"Well,"  thought  Lancelot,  "there's  a  glimpse 
of  practical  sense,  at  least. "  And  a  pedler  who 
sat  next  him,  a  bold,  black-whiskered  bully  from 
the  potteries,  hazarded  a  joke: 

"It's  all  along  of  this  new  sky-and-tough-it 
farming.  They  used  to  spread  the  money  broad- 
cast, but  now  they  drills  it  all  in  one  place,  like 
bone-dust  under  their  fancy  plants,  and  we  poor 
self-sown  chaps  gets  none." 

This  garland  of  fancies  was  received  with  great 
applause;  whereat  the  pedler,  emboldened,  pro- 
ceeded  to  observe,  mysteriously,  that  "donkeys 
took  a  beating,  but  horses  kicked  at  it ;  and  that 
they'd  found  out  that  in  Staffordshire  long  ago. 
You  want  a  good  Chartist  lecturer  down  here,  my 
covies,  to  show  you  donkeys  of  laboring  men  that 
you  have  got  iron  on  your  heels,  if  you  only 
know'd  how  to  use  it." 


The  Village  Revel  225 

"And  what's  the  use  of  rioting?"  asked  some 
one,  querulously. 

"Why,  if  you  don't  riot,  the  farmers  will  starve 
you. " 

"And  if  we  do,  they'd  turn  sodgers  —  yeo- 
manry, as  they  call  it,  though  there  ain't  a  yeo- 
man among  them  in  these  parts;  and  then  they 
takes  sword  and  kills  us.  So,  riot  or  none,  they 
has  it  all  their  own  way." 

Lancelot  heard  many  more  scraps  of  this  sort. 
He  was  very  much  struck  with  their  dread  of 
violence.  It  did  not  seem  cowardice.  It  was 
not  loyalty  —  the  English  laborer  has  fallen  below 
the  capability  of  so  spiritual  a  feeling;  Lancelot 
had  found  out  that  already.  It  could  not  be 
apathy,  for  he  heard  nothing  but  complaint  upon 
complaint  bandied  from  mouth  to  mouth  the 
whole  evening.  They  seemed  rather  sunk  too 
low  in  body  and  mind,  —  too  stupefied  and  spirit- 
less, to  follow  the  example  of  the  manufacturing 
districts;  above  all,  they  were  too  ill-informed. 
It  is  not  mere  starvation  which  goads  the  Leices- 
ter weaver  to  madness.  It  is  starvation  with 
education,  —  an  empty  stomach  and  a  cultivated, 
even  though  miscultivated,  mind. 

At  that  instant,  a  huge  hulking  farm-boy  rolled 
into  the  booth,  roaring  dolefully  the  end  of  a 
song,  with  a  punctuation  of  his  own  invention: 

"  He  '11  maak  me  a  lady  .  Zo  .  Vine  to  be  zyure. 
And,  vaithfully;  love  me.     Although;  I;  be-e;  poor-r-r-r." 

Lancelot  would  have  laughed  heartily  at  him 

anywhere  else;  but  the  whole  scene  was  past  a 

jest;    and  a  gleam    of    pathos    and    tenderness 

seemed   to  shine  even  from   that  doggerel,  —  a 

K— Vol.  V 


226  Yeast 

vista,  as  it  were,  of  true  genial  nature,  in  the 
far  distance.  But  as  he  looked  round  again, 
"What  hope,"  he  thought,  "of  its  realization? 
Arcadian  dreams  of  pastoral  innocence  and  grace- 
ful industry,  I  suppose,  are  to  be  henceforth 
monopolized  by  the  stage  or  the  boudoir  ?  Never, 
so  help  me,  God  ! " 

The  ursine  howls  of  the  new-comer  seemed  to 
have  awakened  the  spirit  of  music  in  the  party. 

"Coom,  Blackburd,  gi'  us  zong,  Blackburd, 
bo' !  "  cried  a  dozen  voices  to  an  impish,  dark- 
eyed  gipsy  boy,  of  some  thirteen  years  old. 

"  Put  'n  on  taable.     Now,  then,  pipe  up !  " 

"What  will  'eeha'?" 

"Mary;  gi'  us  Mary." 

"I  shall  make  a'  girls  cry,"  quoth  Blackbird, 
with  a  grin. 

"Do'n  good,  too;  they  likes  it:  zing  away." 

And  the  boy  began,  in  a  broad  country  twang, 
which  could  not  overpower  the  sad  melody  of 
the  air,  or  the  rich  sweetness  of  his  flute-like 
voice : 

"  Young  Mary  walked  sadly  down  through  the  green  clover, 

And  sighed  as  she  looked  at  the  babe  at  her  breast ; 
'  My  roses  are  faded,  my  false  love  a  rover, 

The  green  graves  they  call  me,  "  Come  home  to  your 
rest." ' 

"  Then  by  rode  a  soldier  in  gorgeous  arraying, 

And  '  Where  is  your  bride-ring,  my  fair  maid  ? '  he  cried ; 
'  I  ne'er  had  a  bride-ring,  by  false  man's  betraying, 
Nor  token  of  love  but  this  babe  at  my  side. 

M  <Tho'  gold  could  not  buy  me,  sweet  words  could  deceive  me; 

So  faithful  and  lonely  till  death  I  must  roam.' 
'  Oh,  Mary,  sweet  Mary,  look  up  and  forgive  me, 

With  wealth  and  with  glory  your  true  love  comes  home  j 


The  Village  Revel  227 

44 '  So  give  me  my  own  babe,  those  soft  arms  adorning, 

I  '11  wed  you  and  cherish  you,  never  to  stray ; 

For  it 's  many  a  dark  and  a  wild  cloudy  morning 

Turns  out  by  the  noon-time  a  sunshiny  day.' " 

"A  bad  moral  that,  sir,"  whispered  Tregarva. 
"Better  than  none,"  answered  Lancelot. 
"  It 's  well  if  you  are  right,  sir,  for  you  '11  hear 
no  other." 

The  keeper  spoke  truly;  in  a  dozen  different 
songs,  more  or  less  coarsely,  but,  in  general, 
with  a  dash  of  pathetic  sentiment,  the  same  case 
of  lawless  love  was  embodied.  It  seemed  to  be 
their  only  notion  of  the  romantic.  Now  and 
then  there  was  a  poaching  song ;  then  one  of  the 
lowest  flash  London  school  —  filth  and  all  —  was 
roared  in  chorus  in  presence  of  the  women. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  you  do  not  thank  me  for 
having  brought  you  to  any  place  so  unfit  for  a 
gentleman,"  said  Tregarva,  seeing  Lancelot's  sad 
face. 

"  Because  it  is  so  unfit  for  a  gentleman,  there- 
fore I  do  thank  you.  It  is  right  to  know  what 
one's  own  flesh  and  blood  are  doing." 

"  Hark  to  that  song,  sir !  that 's  an  old  one.  I 
didn't  think  they  'd  get  on  to  singing  that." 

The  Blackbird  was  again  on  the  table,  but 
seemed  this  time  disinclined  to  exhibit. 

"  Out  wi'  un,  boy;  it  wain't  burn  thy  mouth  !  " 

"I  be  af card." 

"O'  who?" 

"Keeper  there." 

He  pointed  to  Tregarva;  there  was  a  fierce 
growl  round  the  room. 

"I  am  no  keeper,"  shouted  Tregarva,  starting 
up.  "  I  was  turned  off  this  morning  for  speaking 


228  Yeast 

my  mind  about  the  squires,  and  now  I  'm  one  of 
you,  to  live  and  die." 

This  answer  was  received  with  a  murmur  of 
applause ;  and  a  fellow  in  a  scarlet  merino  necker- 
chief, three  waistcoats,  and  a  fancy  shooting- 
jacket,  who  had  been  eyeing  Lancelot  for  some 
time,  sidled  up  behind  them,  and  whispered  in 
Tregarva's  ear: 

"  Perhaps  you  'd  like  an  engagement  in  our  line, 
young  man,  and  your  friend  there,  he  seems  a 
sporting  gent  too.  —  We  could  show  him  very 
pretty  shooting." 

Tregarva  answered  by  the  first  and  last  oath 
Lancelot  ever  heard  from  him,  and  turning  to 
him,  as  the  rascal  sneaked  off: 

"That's  a  poaching  crimp  from  London,  sir; 
tempting  these  poor  boys  to  sin,  and  deceit,  and 
drunkenness,  and  theft,  and  the  hulks." 

"  I  fancy  I  saw  him  somewhere  the  night  of  our 
row  —  you  understand  ? " 

"So  do  I,  sir,  but  there  's  no  use  talking  of  it." 

Blackbird  was  by  this  time  prevailed  on  to 
sing,  and  burst  out  as  melodious  as  ever,  while 
all  heads  were  cocked  on  one  side  in  delighted 
attention. 

"  I  zeed  a  vire  o'  Monday  night, 

A  vire  both  great  and  high ; 
But  I  wool  not  tell  you  where,  my  boys, 

Nor  wool  not  tell  you  why. 
The  varmer  he  comes  screeching  out, 

To  zave  'uns  new  brood  mare ; 
Zays  I,  '  You  and  your  stock  may  roast, 

Vor  aught  us  poor  chaps  care.' 

"  Coorus,  boys,  coorus  !  " 
And  the  chorus  burst  out : 


The  Village  Revel  229 

44  Then  here  's  a  curse  on  varmers  all 

As  rob  and  grind  the  poor ; 
To  re'p  the  fruit  of  all  their  works 
In  *  *  *  *  for  evermoor-r-r-r. 

u  A  blind  owld  dame  come  to  the  vire, 

Zo  near  as  she  could  get ; 
Zays,  '  Here 's  a  luck  I  war  n't  asleep 
To  lose  this  blessed  hett. 

" « They  robs  us  of  our  turfing  rights, 

Our  bits  of  chips  and  sticks, 
Till  poor  folks  now  can't  warm  their  hands, 
Except  by  varmer's  ricks." 

"Then,  etc." 

And  again  the  boy's  delicate  voice  rung  out 
the  ferocious  chorus,  with  something,  Lancelot 
fancied,  of  fiendish  exultation,  and  every  worn 
face  lighted  up  with  a  coarse  laugh,  that  indicated 
no  malice  —  but  also  no  mercy. 

Lancelot  was  sickened,  and  rose  to  go. 

As  he  turned,  his  arm  was  seized  suddenly  and 
firmly.  He  looked  round,  and  saw  a  coarse, 
handsome,  showily  dressed  girl,  looking  intently 
into  his  face.  He  shook  her  angrily  off. 

"You  needn't  be  so  proud,  Mr.  Smith;  I've 
had  my  hand  on  the  arm  of  as  good  as  you.  Ah, 
you  need  n't  start !  I  know  you  —  I  know  you,  I 
say,  well  enough.  You  used  to  be  with  him. 
Where  is  he?" 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"He!"  answered  the  girl,  with  a  fierce,  sur- 
prised look,  as  if  there  could  be  no  one  else  in 
the  world. 

"Colonel  Bracebridge, "  whispered  Tregarva. 

"  Ay,  he  it  is !  And  now  walk  further  off, 
bloodhound !  and  let  me  speak  to  Mr.  Smith. 


230  Yeast 

He  is  in  Norway,"  she  ran  on  eagerly.  "When 
will  he  be  back?  When?" 

"Why  do  you  want  to  know?"  asked  Lancelot. 

"  When  will  he  be  back  ? "  —  she  kept  on 
fiercely  repeating  the  question;  and  then  burst 
out :  "  Curse  you  gentlemen  all !  Cowards  !  you 
are  all  in  a  league  against  us  poor  girls !  You 
can  hunt  alone  when  you  betray  us,  and  lie  fast 
enough  then?  But  when  we  come  for  justice, 
you  all  herd  together  like  a  flock  of  rooks; 
and  turn  so  delicate  and  honorable  all  of  a  sud- 
den —  to  each  other !  When  will  he  be  back,  I 
say?" 

"In  a  month,"  answered  Lancelot,  who  saw 
that  something  really  important  lay  behind  the 
girl's  wildness. 

"Too  late!"  she  cried  wildly,  clapping  her 
hands  together;  "too  late!  Here  —  tell  him  you 
saw  me;  tell  him  you  saw  Mary;  tell  him  where 
and  in  what  a  pretty  place,  too,  for  maid,  master, 
or  man  !  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

"  What  is  that  to  you,  my  good  girl  ?  " 

"True.  Tell  him  you  saw  me  here;  and  tell 
him,  when  next  he  hears  of  me,  it  will  be  in  a 
very  different  place. " 

She  turned  and  vanished  among  the  crowd. 
Lancelot  almost  ran  out  into  the  night,  —  into  a 
triad  of  fights,  two  drunken  men,  two  jealous 
wives,  and  a  brute  who  struck  a  poor,  thin,  worn- 
out  woman,  for  trying  to  coax  him  home.  Lancelot 
rushed  up  to  interfere,  but  a  man  seized  his 
uplifted  arm. 

"He'll  only  beat  her  all  the  more  when  he 
getteth  home." 

"She  has  stood  that  every  Saturday  night  for 


The  Village  Revel  231 

the  last  seven  years,  to  my  knowledge,"  said 
Tregarva;  "and  worse,  too,  at  times." 

"  Good  God !  is  there  no  escape  for  her  from 
her  tyrant  ? " 

"No,  sir.  It's  only  you  gentlefolks  who  can 
afford  such  luxuries ;  your  poor  man  may  be  tied 
to  a  harlot,  or  your  poor  woman  to  a  ruffian,  but 
once  done,  done  forever. " 

"Well,"  thought  Lancelot,  "we  English  have 
a  characteristic  way  of  proving  the  holiness  of 
the  marriage  tie.  The  angel  of  Justice  and  Pity 
cannot  sever  it,  only  the  stronger  demon  of 
Money." 

Their  way  home  lay  over  Ashy  Down,  a  lofty 
chalk  promontory,  round  whose  foot  the  river 
made  a  sudden  bend.  As  they  paced  along  over 
the  dreary  hedgeless  stubbles,  they  both  started, 
as  a  ghostly  "  Ha !  ha !  ha !  "  rang  through  the 
air  over  their  heads,  and  was  answered  by  a  like 
cry,  faint  and  distant,  across  the  wolds. 

"That's  those  stone-curlews  —  at  least,  so  I 
hope,"  said  Tregarva.  " He  '11  be  round  again  in 
a  minute." 

And  again,  right  between  them  and  the  clear, 
cold  moon,  "  Ha  !  ha !  ha !  "  resounded  over  their 
heads.  They  gazed  up  into  the  cloudless  star- 
bespangled  sky,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  living 
thing. 

"It's  an  old  sign  to  me,"  quoth  Tregarva; 
"  God  grant  that  I  may  remember  it  in  this  black 
day  of  mine." 

"How  so?"  asked  Lancelot;  "I  should  not 
have  fancied  you  a  superstitious  man." 

"  Names  go  for  nothing,  sir,  and  what  my  fore- 
fathers believed  in  I  am  not  going  to  be  conceited 


232  Yeast 

enough  to  disbelieve  in  a  hurry.  But  if  you 
heard  my  story  you  would  think  I  had  reason 
enough  to  remember  that  devil's  laugh  up  there." 

"  Let  me  hear  it  then. " 

"  Well,  sir,  it  may  be  a  long  story  to  you,  but 
it  was  a  short  one  to  me,  for  it  was  the  making 
of  me,  out  of  hand,  there  and  then,  blessed  be 
God  !  But  if  you  will  have  it " 

"And  I  will  have  it,  friend  Tregarva,"  quoth 
Lancelot,  lighting  his  cigar. 

"I  was  about  sixteen  years  old,  just  after  I 
came  home  from  the  Brazils " 

"  What !  have  you  been  in  the  Brazils  ?  " 

"Indeed  and  I  have,  sir,  for  three  years;  and 
one  thing  I  learnt  there,  at  least,  that 's  worth 
going  for." 

"What's  that?" 

"What  the  Garden  of  Eden  must  have  been 
like.  But  those  Brazils,  under  God,  were  the 
cause  of  my  being  here ;  for  my  father,  who  was  a 
mine-captain,  lost  all  his  money  there,  by  no 
man's  fault  but  his  own,  and  not  his  either,  the 
world  would  say,  and  when  we  came  back  to 
Cornwall  he  could  not  stand  the  bal  work,  nor  I 
neither.  Out  of  that  burning  sun,  sir,  to  come 
home  here,  and  work  in  the  levels,  up  to  our 
knees  in  warm  water,  with  the  thermometer  at 
85°,  and  then  up  a  thousand  feet  of  ladder  to 
grass,  reeking  wet  with  heat,  and  find  the  easterly 
sleet  driving  across  those  open  furze-crofts  —  he 
couldn't  stand  it,  sir  —  few  stand  it  long,  even  of 
those  who  stay  in  Cornwall.  We  miners  have  a 
short  lease  of  life;  consumption  and  strains  break 
us  down  before  we  're  fifty." 

"But  how  came  you  here? " 


The  Village  Revel  233 

"The  doctor  told  my  father,  and  me  too,  sir, 
that  we  must  give  up  mining,  or  die  of  decline : 
so  he  came  up  here,  to  a  sister  of  his  that  was 
married  to  the  squire's  gardener,  and  here  he 
died;  and  the  squire,  God  bless  him  and  forgive 
him,  took  a  fancy  to  me,  and  made  me  under- 
keeper.  And  I  loved  the  life,  for  it  took  me 
among  the  woods  and  the  rivers,  where  I  could 
think  of  the  Brazils,  and  fancy  myself  back  again. 
But  mustn't  talk  of  that  —  where  God  wills  is 
all  right.  And  it  is  a  fine  life  for  reading  and 
thinking,  a  gamekeeper's,  for  it 's  an  idle  life  at 
best.  Now  that 's  over,"  he  added,  with  a  sigh, 
"and  the  Lord  has  fulfilled  His  words  to  me, 
that  He  spoke  the  first  night  that  ever  I  heard  a 
stone-plover  cry. " 

"  What  on  earth  can  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Lance- 
lot, deeply  interested. 

"Why,  sir,  it  was  a  wild,  whirling  gray  night, 
with  the  air  full  of  sleet  and  rain,  and  my  father 
sent  me  over  to  Redruth  town  to  bring  home 
some  trade  or  other.  And  as  I  came  back  I  got 
blinded  with  the  sleet,  and  I  lost  my  way  across 
the  moors.  You  know  those  Cornish  furze- 
moors,  sir  ? " 

"No." 

"Well,  then,  they  are  burrowed  like  a  rabbit- 
warren  with  old  mine-shafts.  You  can't  go  in 
some  places  ten  yards  without  finding  great, 
ghastly  black  holes,  covered  in  with  furze,  and 
weeds,  and  bits  of  rotting  timber;  and  when  I 
was  a  boy  I  couldn't  keep  from  them.  Some- 
thing seemed  to  draw  me  to  go  and  peep  down, 
and  drop  pebbles  in,  to  hear  them  rattle  against 
the  sides,  fathoms  below,  till  they  plumped  into 


234  Yeast 

the  ugly  black  still  water  at  the  bottom.  And  I 
used  to  be  always  after  them  in  my  dreams,  when 
I  was  young,  falling  down  them,  down,  down, 
all  night  long,  till  I  woke  screaming;  for  I 
fancied  they  were  hell's  mouth,  every  one  of 
them.  And  it  stands  to  reason,  sir;  we  miners 
hold  that  the  lake  of  fire  can't  be  far  below.  For 
we  find  it  grow  warmer,  and  warmer,  and  warmer, 
the  farther  we  sink  a  shaft;  and  the  learned 
gentlemen  have  proved,  sir,  that  it 's  not  the 
blasting  powder,  nor  the  men's  breaths,  that  heat 
the  mine." 

Lancelot  could  but  listen. 

"Well,  sir,  I  got  into  a  great  furze-croft,  full 
of  deads  (those  are  the  earth-heaps  they  throw 
out  of  the  shafts),  where  no  man  in  his  senses 
dare  go  forward  or  back  in  the  dark,  for  fear  of 
the  shafts ;  and  the  wind  and  the  snow  were  so 
sharp,  they  made  me  quite  stupid  and  sleepy ;  and 
I  knew  if  I  stayed  there  I  should  be  frozen  to 
death,  and  if  I  went  on,  there  were  the  shafts 
ready  to  swallow  me  up :  and  what  with  fear  and 
the  howling  and  raging  of  the  wind,  I  was  like  a 
mazed  boy,  sir.  And  I  knelt  down  and  tried  to 
pray;  and  then,  in  one  moment,  all  the  evil 
things  I  'd  ever  done,  and  the  bad  words  and 
thoughts  that  ever  crossed  me,  rose  up  together 
as  clear  as  one  page  of  a  print-book ;  and  I  knew 
that  if  I  died  that  minute  I  should  go  to  hell. 
And  then  I  saw  through  the  ground  all  the  water 
in  the  shafts  glaring  like  blood,  and  all  the  sides 
of  the  shafts  fierce  red-hot,  as  if  hell  was  coming 
up.  And  I  heard  the  knockers  knocking,  or 
thought  I  heard  them,  as  plain  as  I  hear  that 
grasshopper  in  the  hedge  now." 


The  Village  Revel  235 

"What  are  the  knockers?  " 

"They  are  the  ghosts,  the  miners  hold,  of  the 
old  Jews,  sir,  that  crucified  our  Lord,  and  were 
sent  for  slaves  by  the  Roman  emperors  to  work 
the  mines;  and  we  find  their  old  smelting- 
houses,  which  we  call  Jews'  houses,  and  their 
blocks  of  tin,  at  the  bottom  of  the  great  bogs, 
which  we  call  Jews'  tin;  and  there's  a  town 
among  us,  too,  which  we  call  Market -Jew  —  but 
the  old  name  was  Marazion;  that  means  the 
Bitterness  of  Zion,  they  tell  me.  Isn't  it  so, 
sir?" 

"I  believe  it  is,"  said  Lancelot,  utterly  puzzled 
in  this  new  field  of  romance. 

"  And  bitter  work  it  was  for  them,  no  doubt, 
poor  souls !  We  used  to  break  into  the  old  shafts 
and  adits  which  they  had  made,  and  find  old 
stags' -horn  pickaxes,  that  crumbled  to  pieces 
when  we  brought  them  to  grass;  and  they  say, 
that  if  a  man  will  listen,  sir,  of  a  still  night, 
about  those  old  shafts,  he  may  hear  the  ghosts  of 
them  at  working,  knocking,  and  picking,  as  clear 
as  if  there  was  a  man  at  work  in  the  next 
level.  It  may  be  all  an  old  fancy.  I  suppose 
it  is.  But  I  believed  it  when  I  was  a  boy ;  and 
it  helped  the  work  in  me  that  night.  But  I  '11  go 
on  with  my  story." 

"Go  on  with  what  you  like,"  said  Lancelot. 

"Well,  sir,  I  was  down  on  my  knees  among 
the  furze-bushes,  and  I  tried  to  pray;  but  I  was 
too  frightened,  for  I  felt  the  beast  I  had  been, 
sir;  and  I  expected  the  ground  to  open  and  let 
me  down  every  moment ;  and  then  there  came  by 
over  my  head  a  rushing,  and  a  cry.  '  Ha !  ha ! 
ha !  Paul !  '  it  said ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  all  the 


236  Yeast 

devils  and  witches  were  out  on  the  wind,  a-laugh- 
ing  at  my  misery.  'Oh,  I'll  mend  —  I'll  re- 
pent, '  I  said,  '  indeed  I  will : '  and  again  it  came 
back,  —  '  Ha !  ha !  ha !  Paul ! '  it  said.  I  knew 
afterwards  that  it  was  a  bird;  but  the  Lord  sent 
it  to  me  for  a  messenger,  no  less,  that  night. 
And  I  shook  like  a  reed  in  the  water;  and  then, 
all  at  once  a  thought  struck  me.  '  Why  should  I 
be  a  coward  ?  Why  should  I  be  afraid  of  shafts, 
or  devils,  or  hell,  or  anything  else?  If  I  am  a 
miserable  sinner,  there's  One  died  for  me  —  I 
owe  him  love,  not  fear  at  all.  I  '11  not  be  fright- 
ened into  doing  right  —  that's  a  rascally  reason 
for  repentance. '  And  so  it  was,  sir,  that  I  rose 
up  like  a  man,  and  said  to  the  Lord  Jesus,  right 
out  into  the  black,  dumb  air,  —  '  If  you  '11  be  on 
my  side  this  night,  good  Lord,  that  died  for  me, 
I  '11  be  on  your  side  forever,  villain  as  I  am,  if 
I'm  worth  making  any  use  of.'  And  there  and 
then,  sir,  I  saw  a  light  come  over  the  bushes, 
brighter,  and  brighter,  up  to  me ;  and  there  rose 
up  a  voice  within  me,  and  spoke  to  me,  quite 
soft  and  sweet,  —  '  Fear  not,  Paul,  for  I  will  send, 
thee  far  hence  unto  the  Gentiles.'  And  what 
more  happened  I  can't  tell,  for  when  I  woke  I 
was  safe  at  home.  My  father  and  his  folk  had 
been  out  with  lanterns  after  me;  and  there  they 
found  me,  sure  enough,  in  a  dead  faint  on  the 
ground.  But  this  I  know,  sir,  that  those  words 
have  never  left  my  mind  since  for  a  day  together; 
and  I  know  that  they  will  be  fulfilled  in  me  this 
tide,  or  never. " 

Lancelot  was  silent  a  few  minutes. 

"  I  suppose,  Tregarva,  that  you  would  call  this 
your  conversion  ? " 


The  Village  Revel  237 

"  I  should  call  it  one,  sir,  because  it  was  one. " 

"Tell  me  now,  honestly,  did  any  real,  practical 
change  in  your  behavior  take  place  after  that 
night?" 

"As  much,  sir,  as  if  you  put  a  soul  into  a  hog, 
and  told  him  that  he  was  a  gentleman's  son;  and, 
if  every  time  he  remembered  that,  he  got  spirit 
enough  to  conquer  his  hoggishness,  and  behave 
like  a  man,  till  the  hoggishness  died  out  of  him, 
and  the  manliness  grew  up  and  bore  fruit  in  him, 
more  and  more  each  day. " 

Lancelot  half  understood  him,  and  sighed. 

A  long  silence  followed,  as  they  paced  on  past 
lonely  farmyards,  from  which  the  rich  manure- 
water  was  draining  across  the  road  in  foul  black 
streams,  festering  and  steaming  in  the  chill  night 
air.  Lancelot  sighed  as  he  saw  the  fruitful  mate- 
rials of  food  running  to  waste,  and  thought  of  the 
"over-population  "  cry ;  and  then  he  looked  across 
to  the  miles  of  brown  moorland  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  valley,  that  lay  idle  and  dreary  under 
the  autumn  moon,  except  where  here  and  there  a 
squatter's  cottage  and  rood  of  fruitful  garden  gave 
the  lie  to  the  laziness  and  ignorance  of  man,  who 
pretends  that  it  is  not  worth  his  while  to  cultivate 
the  soil  which  God  has  given  him.  "  Good 
heavens !  "  he  thought,  "  had  our  forefathers  had 
no  more  enterprise  than  modem  landlords,  where 
should  we  all  have  been  at  this  moment?  Every- 
where waste !  Waste  of  manure,  waste  of  land, 
waste  of  muscle,  waste  of  brain,  waste  of  popu- 
lation—  and  we  call  ourselves  the  workshop  of 
the  world!" 

As  they  passed  through  the  miserable  hamlet- 
street  of  Ashy,  they  saw  a  light  burning  in  a 


238  Yeast 

window.  At  the  door  below,  a  haggard  woman 
was  looking  anxiously  down  the  village. 

"What's  the  matter,  Mistress  Cooper?"  asked 
Tregarva. 

"Here's  Mrs.  Grane's  poor  girl  lying  sick  of 
the  fever  —  the  Lord  help  her !  and  the  boy  died 
of  it  last  week.  We  sent  for  the  doctor  this 
afternoon,  and  he's  busy  with  a  poor  soul  that's 
in  her  trouble;  and  now  we've  sent  down  to  the 
squire's,  and  the  young  ladies,  God  bless  them! 
sent  answer  they'd  come  themselves  straight- 
way. " 

"  No  wonder  you  have  typhus  here, "  said  Lance- 
lot, "with  this  filthy  open  drain  running  right 
before  the  door.  Why  can't  you  clean  it  out? " 

"Why,  what  harm  does  that  do?"  answered 
the  woman,  peevishly.  "  Besides,  here 's  my 
master  gets  up  to  his  work  by  five  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  not  back  till  seven  at  night,  and  by  then 
he  ain't  in  no  humor  to  clean  out  gutters.  And 
where's  the  water  to  come  from  to  keep  a  place 
clean  ?  It  costs  many  a  one  of  us  here  a  shilling 
a  week  the  summer  through  to  pay  fetching  water 
up  the  hill.  We  've  work  enough  to  fill  our 
kettles.  The  muck  must  just  lie  in  the  road, 
smell  or  none,  till  the  rain  carries  it  away." 

Lancelot  sighed  again. 

"  It  would  be  a  good  thing  for  Ashy,  Tregarva, 
if  the  weir-pool  did,  some  fine  morning,  run  up 
to  Ashy  Down,  as  poor  Harry  Verney  said  on  his 
deathbed." 

"There  won't  be  much  of  Ashy  left  by  that 
time,  sir,  if  the  landlords  go  on  pulling  down 
cottages  at  their  present  rate ;  driving  the  people 
into  the  towns,  to  herd  together  there  like  hogs, 


The  Village  Revel  239 

and  walk  out  to  their  work  four  or  five  miles 
every  morning." 

"Why,"  said  Lancelot,  "wherever  one  goes 
one  sees  commodious  new  cottages  springing 
up." 

"Wherever  you  go,  sir;  but  what  of  wherever 
you  don't  go?  Along  the  roadsides,  and  round 
the  gentlemen's  parks,  where  the  cottages  are  in 
sight,  it's  all  very  smart;  but  just  go  into  the 
outlying  hamlets  —  a  whited  sepulchre,  sir,  is 
many  a  great  estate;  outwardly  swept  and  gar- 
nished, and  inwardly  full  of  all  uncleanliness, 
and  dead  men's  bones." 

At  this  moment  two  cloaked  and  veiled  figures 
came  up  to  the  door,  followed  by  a  servant. 
There  was  no  mistaking  those  delicate  footsteps, 
and  the  two  young  men  drew  back  with  fluttering 
hearts,  and  breathed  out  silent  blessings  on  the 
ministering  angels,  as  they  entered  the  crazy  and 
reeking  house. 

"I'm  thinking,  sir,"  said  Tregarva,  as  they 
walked  slowly  and  reluctantly  away,  "that  it  is 
hard  of  the  gentlemen  to  leave  all  God's  work  to 
the  ladies,  as  nine-tenths  of  them  do." 

"And  I  am  thinking,  Tregarva,  that  both  for 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  prevention  is  better  than 
cure." 

"There's  a  great  change  come  over  Miss 
Argemone,  sir.  She  used  not  to  be  so  ready  to 
start  out  at  midnight  to  visit  dying  folk.  A 
blessed  change!" 

Lancelot  thought  so  too,  and  he  thought  that 
he  knew  the  cause  of  it. 

Argemone' s  appearance,  and  their  late  conver- 
sation, had  started  a  new  covey  of  strange  fancies. 


240  Yeast 

Lancelot  followed  them  over  hill  and  dale,  glad 
to  escape  a  moment  from  the  mournful  lessons  of 
that  evening;  but  even  over  them  there  was  a 
cloud  of  sadness.  Harry  Verney's  last  words, 
and  Argemone's  accidental  whisper  about  "a 
curse  upon  the  Lavingtons,"  rose  to  his  mind. 
He  longed  to  ask  Tregarva,  but  he  was  afraid  — 
not  of  the  man,  for  there  was  a  delicacy  in  his 
truthfulness  which  encouraged  the  most  utter 
confidence,  but  of  the  subject  itself;  but  curi- 
osity conquered. 

"What  did  Old  Harry  mean  about  the  Nun- 
pool  ? "  he  said  at  last.  "  Every  one  seemed  to 
understand  him." 

"Ah,  sir,  he  oughtn't  to  have  talked  of  it! 
But  dying  men,  at  times,  see  over  the  dark  water 
into  deep  things  —  deeper  than  they  think  them- 
selves. Perhaps  there 's  one  speaks  through 
them.  But  I  thought  every  one  knew  the  story." 

"I  do  not,  at  least." 

"Perhaps  it 's  so  much  the  better,  sir." 

"Why?  I  must  insist  on  knowing.  It  is 
necessary — proper,  that  is  —  that  I  should  hear 
everything  that  concerns " 

"I  understand,  sir;  so  it  is;  and  I'll  tell  you. 
The  story  goes,  that  in  the  old  Popish  times, 
when  the  nuns  held  Whitford  Priors,  the  first 
Mr.  Lavington  that  ever  was  came  from  the  king 
with  a  warrant  to  turn  them  all  out,  poor  souls, 
and  take  the  lands  for  his  own.  And  they  say 
the  head  lady  of  them  —  prioress,  or  abbess,  as 
they  called  her  —  withstood  him,  and  cursed  him, 
in  the  name  of  the  Lord,  for  a  hypocrite  who 
robbed  harmless  women  under  the  cloak  of  pun- 
ishing them  for  sins  they  'd  never  committed  (for 


The  Village  Revel  241 

they  say,  sir,  he  went  up  to  court,  and  slandered 
the  nuns  there  for  drunkards  and  worse).  And 
she  told  him,  '  That  the  curse  of  the  nuns  of 
Whitford  should  be  on  him  and  his,  till  they 
helped  the  poor  in  the  spirit  of  the  nuns  of 
Whitford,  and  the  Nun-pool  ran  up  to  Ashy 
Down. '  " 

"That  time  is  not  come  yet,"  said  Lancelot. 

"But  the  worst  is  to  come,  sir.  For  he  or  his, 
sir,  that  night,  said  or  did  something  to  the  lady, 
that  was  more  than  woman's  heart  could  bear: 
and  the  next  morning  she  was  found  dead  and 
cold,  drowned  in  that  weir-pool.  And  there  the 
gentleman's  eldest  son  was  drowned,  and  more 
than  one  Lavington  beside.  Miss  Argemone's 
only  brother,  that  was  the  heir,  was  drowned 
there  too,  when  he  was  a  little  one." 

"  I  never  heard  that  she  had  a  brother. " 

"  No,  sir,  no  one  talks  of  it.  There  are  many 
things  happen  in  the  great  house  that  you  must 
go  to  the  little  house  to  hear  of.  But  the  country- 
folk believe,  sir,  that  the  nun's  curse  holds  true; 
and  they  say,  that  Whitford  folks  have  been  get- 
ting poorer  and  wickeder  ever  since  that  time, 
and  will,  till  the  Nun-pool  runs  up  to  Ashy,  and 
the  Lavingtons'  name  goes  out  of  Whitford 
Priors." 

Lancelot  said  nothing.  A  presentiment  of  evil 
hung  over  him.  He  was  utterly  down-hearted 
about  Tregarva,  about  Argemone,  about  the 
poor.  The  truth  was,  he  could  not  shake  off  the 
impression  of  the  scene  he  had  left,  utterly  dis- 
appointed and  disgusted  with  the  "revel."  He 
had  expected,  as  I  said  before,  at  least  to  hear 
something  of  pastoral  sentiment,  and  of  genial 


242  Yeast 

frolicsome  humor;  to  see  some  innocent,  simple 
enjoyment :  but  instead,  what  had  he  seen  but 
vanity,  jealousy,  hoggish  sensuality,  dull  vacuity? 
drudges  struggling  for  one  night  to  forget  their 
drudgery.  And  yet  withal,  those  songs,  and  the 
effect  which  they  produced,  showed  that  in  these 
poor  creatures,  too,  lay  the  germs  of  pathos, 
taste,  melody,  soft  and  noble  affections.  "  What 
right  have  we,"  thought  he,  "to  hinder  their 
development  ?  Art,  poetry,  music,  science,  —  ay, 
even  those  athletic  and  graceful  exercises  on 
which  we  all  pride  ourselves,  which  we  consider 
necessary  to  soften  and  refine  ourselves,  what 
God  has  given  us  a  monopoly  of  them?  —  what 
is  good  for  the  rich  man  is  good  for  the  poor. 
Over-education  ?  And  what  of  that  ?  What  if 
the  poor  be  raised  above  '  their  station  '  ?  What 
right  have  we  to  keep  them  down?  How  long 
have  they  been  our  born  thralls  in  soul,  as  well 
as  in  body  ?  What  right  have  we  to  say  that  they 
shall  know  no  higher  recreation  than  the  hogs, 
because,  forsooth,  if  we  raised  them,  they  might 
refuse  to  work  — for  us  ?  Are  we  to  fix  how  far 
their  minds  may  be  developed?  Has  not  God 
fixed  it  for  us,  when  He  gave  them  the  same 
passions,  talents,  tastes,  as  our  own  ? " 

Tregarva's  meditations  must  have  been  running 
in  a  very  different  channel,  for  he  suddenly  burst 
out,  after  a  long  silence  : 

"  It 's  a  pity  these  fairs  can't  be  put  down.  They 
do  a  lot  of  harm ;  ruin  all  the  young  girls  round, 
the  Dissenters'  children  especially,  for  they  run 
utterly  wild ;  their  parents  have  no  hold  on  them 
at  all." 

"  They  tell  them  that  they  are  children  of  the 


The  Village  Revel  243 

devil,"  said  Lancelot.  "  What  wonder  if  the  chil- 
dren take  them  at  their  word,  and  act  accordingly?  " 

"  The  parson  here,  sir,  who  is  a  God-fearing  man 
enough,  tried  hard  to  put  down  this  one,  but  the 
innkeepers  were  too  strong  for  him." 

"  To  take  away  their  only  amusement,  in  short. 
He  had  much  better  have  set  to  work  to  amuse 
them  himself." 

"  His  business  is  to  save  souls,  sir,  and  not  to 
amuse  them.  I  don't  see,  sir,  what  Christian 
people  want  with  such  vanities." 

Lancelot  did  not  argue  the  point,  for  he  knew 
the  prejudices  of  Dissenters  on  the  subject ;  but  it 
did  strike  him  that  if  Tregarva's  brain  had  been  a 
little  less  preponderant,  he,  too,  might  have  found 
the  need  of  some  recreation  besides  books  and 
thought. 

By  this  time  they  were  at  Lancelot's  door.  He 
bid  the  keeper  a  hearty  good-night,  made  him 
promise  to  see  him  next  day,  and  went  to  bed  and 
slept  till  nearly  noon. 

When  he  walked  into  his  breakfast-room,  he 
found  a  note  on  the  table  in  his  uncle's  hand- 
writing. The  vicar's  servant  had  left  it  an  hour 
before.  He  opened  it  listlessly,  rang  the  bell 
furiously,  ordered  out  his  best  horse,  and,  huddling 
on  his  clothes,  galloped  to  the  nearest  station, 
caught  the  train,  and  arrived  at  his  uncle's  bank— 
it  had  stopped  payment  two  hours  before. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
WHAT'S  TO  BE  DONE? 

YES !  the  bank  had  stopped.  The  ancient 
firm  of  Smith,  Brown,  Jones,  Robinson,  and 
Co.,  which  had  been  for  some  years  past  expand- 
ing from  a  solid  golden  organism  into  a  cobweb- 
tissue  and  huge  balloon  of  threadbare  paper,  had 
at  last  worn  through  and  collapsed,  dropping  its 
car  and  human  contents  miserably  into  the  Thames 
mud.  Why  detail  the  pitiable  post-mortem  exami- 
nation resulting?  Lancelot  sickened  over  it  for 
many  a  long  day;  not,  indeed,  mourning  at  his 
private  losses,  but  at  the  thorough  hollowness  of 
the  system  which  it  exposed,  about  which  he  spoke 
his  mind  pretty  freely  to  his  uncle,  who  bore  it 
good-humoredly  enough.  Indeed,  the  discussions 
to  which  it  gave  rise  rather  comforted  the  good 
man,  by  turning  his  thought  from  his  own  losses 
to  general  principles.  "  I  have  ruined  you,  my 
poor  boy,"  he  used  to  say ;  "  so  you  may  as  well 
take  your  money 's  worth  out  of  me  in  bullying." 
Nothing,  indeed,  could  surpass  his  honest  and 
manly  sorrow  for  having  been  the  cause  of  Lan- 
celot's beggary;  but  as  for  persuading  him  that 
his  system  was  wrong,  it  was  quite  impossible. 
Not  that  Lancelot  was  hard  upon  him;  on  the 
contrary,  he  assured  him,  repeatedly,  of  his  con- 
viction, that  the  precepts  of  the  Bible  had  nothing  to 


What 's  to  be  Done  ?  245 

do  with  the  laws  of  commerce ;  that  though  the  Jews 
were  forbidden  to  take  interest  of  Jews,  Christians 
had  a  perfect  right  to  be  as  hard  as  they  liked  on 
"  brother  "  Christians ;  that  there  could  not  be  the 
least  harm  in  share-jobbing,  for  though  it  did,  to  be 
sure,  add  nothing  to  the  wealth  of  the  community 
—  only  conjure  money  out  of  your  neighbor's 
pocket  into  your  own  —  yet  was  not  that  all  fair 
in  trade  ?  If  a  man  did  not  know  the  real  value 
of  the  shares  he  sold  you,  you  were  not  bound  to 
tell  him.  Again,  Lancelot  quite  agreed  with  his 
uncle,  that  though  covetousness  might  be  idol- 
atry, yet  money-making  could  not  be  called  cov- 
etousness ;  and  that,  on  the  whole,  though  making 
haste  to  be  rich  was  denounced  as  a  dangerous 
and  ruinous  temptation  in  St.  Paul's  times,  that 
was  not  the  slightest  reason  why  it  should  be  so 
now.  All  these  concessions  were  made  with  a 
freedom  which  caused  the  good  banker  to  suspect 
at  times  that  his  shrewd  nephew  was  laughing  at 
him  in  his  sleeve,  but  he  could  not  but  subscribe 
to  them  for  the  sake  of  consistency;  though  as 
a  stanch  Protestant,  it  puzzled  him  a  little  at 
times  to  find  it  necessary  to  justify  himself  by 
getting  his  "  infidel "  nephew  to  explain  away  so 
much  of  the  Bible  for  him.  But  men  are  accus- 
tomed to  do  that  nowadays,  and  so  was  he. 

Once  only  did  Lancelot  break  out  with  his  real 
sentiments  when  the  banker  was  planning  how  to 
re-establish  his  credit;  to  set  to  work,  in  fact, 
to  blow  over  again  the  same  bubble  which  had 
already  burst  under  him. 

"If  I  were  a  Christian,"  said  Lancelot,  "like 
you,  I  would  call  this  credit  system  of  yours  the 
devil's  selfish  counterfeit  of  God's  order  of  mutual 


246  Yeast 

love  and  trust;  the  child  of  that  miserable  dream, 
which,  as  Dr.  Chalmers  well  said,  expects  uni- 
versal selfishness  to  do  the  work  of  universal 
love.  Look  at  your  credit  system,  how  —  not  in 
its  abuse,  but  in  its  very  essence  —  it  carries  the 
seeds  of  self-destruction.  In  the  first  place,  a 
man's  credit  depends,  not  upon  his  real  worth 
and  property,  but  upon  his  reputation  for  property ; 
daily  and  hourly  he  is  tempted,  he  is  forced,  to 
puff  himself,  to  pretend  to  be  richer  than  he  is." 

The  banker  sighed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"We  all  do  it,  my  dear  boy." 

"  I  know  it.  You  must  do  it,  or  be  more  than 
human.  There  is  lie  the  first,  and  look  at  lie  the 
second.  This  credit  system  is  founded  on  the 
universal  faith  and  honor  of  men  towards  men. 
But  do  you  think  faith  and  honor  can  be  the 
children  of  selfishness  ?  Men  must  be  chivalrous 
and  disinterested  to  be  honorable.  And  you 
expect  them  all  to  join  in  universal  faith  —  each 
for  his  own  selfish  interest  ?  You  forget  that  if 
that  is  the  prime  motive,  men  will  be  honorable 
only  as  long  as  it  suits  that  same  self-interest." 

The  banker  shrugged  his  shoulders  again. 

"Yes,  my  dear  uncle,"  said  Lancelot,  "you  all 
forget  it,  though  you  suffer  for  it  daily  and 
hourly;  though  the  honorable  men  among  you 
complain  of  the  stain  which  has  fallen  on  the  old 
chivalrous  good  faith  of  English  commerce,  and 
say  that  now,  abroad  as  well  as  at  home,  an  Eng- 
lishman's word  is  no  longer  worth  other  men's 
bonds.  You  see  the  evil,  and  you  deplore  it  in 
disgust.  Ask  yourself  honestly,  how  can  you 
battle  against  it,  while  you  allow  in  practice, 
and  in  theory  too,  except  in  church  on  Sundays, 


What's  to  be  Done?  247 

the  very  falsehood  from  which  it  all  springs  ?  — 
that  a  man  is  bound  to  get  wealth,  not  for  his 
country,  but  for  himself;  that,  in  short,  not 
patriotism,  but  selfishness,  is  the  bond  of  all 
society.  Selfishness  can  collect,  not  unite,  a 
herd  of  cowardly  wild  cattle,  that  they  may  feed 
together,  breed  together,  keep  off  the  wolf  and 
bear  together.  But  when  one  of  your  wild  cattle 
falls  sick,  what  becomes  of  the  corporate  feelings 
of  the  herd  then?  For  one  man  of  your  class 
who  is  nobly  helped  by  his  fellows,  are  not  the 
thousand  left  behind  to  perish  ?  Your  Bible  talks 
of  society,  not  as  a  herd,  but  as  a  living  tree, 
an  organic  individual  body,  a  holy  brotherhood, 
and  kingdom  of  God.  And  here  is  an  idol  which 
you  have  set  up  instead  of  it ! " 

But  the  banker  was  deaf  to  all  arguments.  No 
doubt  he  had  plenty,  for  he  was  himself  a  just 
and  generous  —  ay,  and  a  God-fearing  man  in  his 
way,  only  he  regarded  Lancelot's  young  fancies 
as  too  visionary  to  deserve  an  answer;  which 
they  most  probably  are ;  else,  having  been  broached 
as  often  as  they  have  been,  they  would  surely, 
ere  now,  have  provoked  the  complete  refutation 
which  can,  no  doubt,  be  given  to  them  by  hun- 
dreds of  learned  votaries  of  so-called  commerce. 
And  here  I  beg  my  readers  to  recollect  that  I  am 
in  no  way  answerable  for  the  speculations,  either 
of  Lancelot  or  any  of  his  acquaintances ;  and  that 
these  papers  have  been,  from  beginning  to  end, 
as  in  name,  so  in  nature,  Yeast  —  an  honest 
sample  of  the  questions  which,  good  or  bad,  are 
fermenting  in  the  minds  of  the  young  of  this  day, 
and  are  rapidly  leavening  the  minds  of  the  rising 
generation.  No  doubt  they  are  all  as  full  of  fal- 


248  Yeast 

lacies  as  possible,  but  as  long  as  the  saying  of 
the  German  sage  stands  true,  that  "the  destiny 
of  any  nation,  at  any  given  moment,  depends  on 
the  opinions  of  its  young  men  under  five-and- 
twenty,"  so  long  it  must  be  worth  while  for  those 
who  wish  to  preserve  the  present  order  of  society 
to  justify  its  acknowledged  evils  somewhat,  not 
only  to  the  few  young  men  who  are  interested  in 
preserving  them,  but  also  to  the  many  who  are  not. 
Though,  therefore,  I  am  neither  Plymouth 
Brother  nor  Communist,  and  as  thoroughly  con- 
vinced as  the  newspapers  can  make  me,  that  to 
assert  the  duties  of  property  is  only  to  plot  its 
destruction,  and  that  a  community  of. goods  must 
needs  imply  a  community  of  wives  (as  every  one 
knows  was  the  case  with  the  apostolic  Christians), 
I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  narrating  Lancelot's 
fanatical  conduct,  without  execratory  comment, 
certain  that  he  will  still  receive  his  just  reward 
of  condemnation ;  and  that,  if  I  find  facts,  a  sen- 
sible public  will  find  abhorrence  for  them.  His 
behavior  was,  indeed,  most  singular;  he  abso- 
lutely refused  a  good  commercial  situation  which 
his  uncle  procured  him.  He  did  not  believe 
in  being  "cured  by  a  hair  of  the  dog  that  bit 
him;"  and  he  refused,  also,  the  really  generous 
offers  of  the  creditors,  to  allow  him  a  sufficient 
maintenance. 

"No,"  he  said,  "no  more  pay  without  work  for 
me.  I  will  earn  my  bread  or  starve.  It  seems 
God's  will  to  teach  me  what  poverty  is  —  I  will 
see  that  His  intention  is  not  left  half  fulfilled. 
I  have  sinned,  and  only  in  the  stern  delight  of  a 
just  penance  can  I  gain  self-respect. " 

"But,  my  dear  madman,"  said  his  uncle,  "you 


What 's  to  be  Done?  249 

are  just  the  innocent  one  among  us  all.  You, 
at  least,  were  only  a  sleeping  partner." 

"And  therein  lies  my  sin;  I  took  money  which 
I  never  earned,  and  cared  as  little  how  it  was 
gained  as  how  I  spent  it.  Henceforth  I  shall 
touch  no  farthing  which  is  the  fruit  of  a  system 
which  I  cannot  approve.  I  accuse  no  one. 
Actions  may  vary  in  rightfulness,  according  to 
the  age  and  the  person.  But  what  may  be  right 
for  you  because  you  think  it  right,  is  surely 
wrong  for  me  because  I  think  it  wrong." 

So,  with  grim  determination,  he  sent  to  the 
hammer  every  article  he  possessed,  till  he  had 
literally  nothing  left  but  the  clothes  in  which  he 
stood.  "He  could  not  rest,"  he  said,  "till  he 
had  pulled  out  all  his  borrowed  peacock's  feathers. 
When  they  were  gone  he  should  be  able  to  see, 
at  last,  whether  he  was  jackdaw  or  eagle."  And 
wonder  not,  reader,  at  this  same  strength  of  will. 
The  very  genius,  which  too  often  makes  its  pos- 
sessor self-indulgent  in  common  matters,  from 
the  intense  capability  of  enjoyment  which  it 
brings,  may  also,  when  once  his  whole  being  is 
stirred  into  motion  by  some  great  object,  trans- 
form him  into  a  hero. 

And  he  carried  a  letter,  too,  in  his  bosom, 
night  and  day,  which  routed  all  coward  fears 
and  sad  forebodings  as  soon  as  they  arose,  and 
converted  the  lonely  and  squalid  lodging  to  which 
he  had  retired,  into  a  fairy  palace  peopled  with 
bright  phantoms  of  future  bliss.  I  need  not  say 
from  whom  it  came. 

"  Beloved  !  "  (it  ran)  "  Darling  !  you  need  not  pain 
yourself  to  tell  me  anything.     I  know  all ;  and  I  know, 
I^-Vol.  V 


250  Yeast 

too  (do  not  ask  me  how),  your  noble  determination  to 
drink  the  wholesome  cup  of  poverty  to  the  very  dregs. 

"  Oh  that  I  were  with  you  !  Oh  that  I  could  give 
you  my  fortune  !  but  that  is  not  yet,  alas  !  in  my  own 
power.  No  !  rather  would  I  share  that  poverty  with  you, 
and  strengthen  you  in  your  purpose.  And  yet,  I  cannot 
bear  the  thought  of  you,  lonely  —  perhaps  miserable. 
But,  courage  !  though  you  have  lost  all,  you  have  found 
me;  and  now  you  are  knitting  me  to  you  forever  — 
justifying  my  own  love  to  me  by  your  nobleness ;  and  am 
I  not  worth  all  the  world  to  you?  I  dare  say  this  to 
you;  you  will  not  think  me  conceited.  Can  we  mis- 
understand each  other's  hearts  ?  And  all  this  while  you 
are  alone !  Oh !  I  have  mourned  for  you !  Since  I 
heard  of  your  misfortune  I  have  not  tasted  pleasure. 
The  light  of  heaven  has  been  black  to  me,  and  I  have 
lived  only  upon  love.  I  will  not  taste  comfort  while  you 
are  wretched.  Would  that  I  could  be  poor  like  you ! 
Every  night  upon  the  bare  floor  I  lie  down  to  sleep,  and 
fancy  you  in  your  little  chamber,  and  nestle  to  you,  and 
cover  that  dear  face  with  kisses.  Strange  !  that  I  should 
dare  to  speak  thus  to  you,  whom  a  few  months  ago  I  had 
never  heard  of !  Wonderful  simplicity  of  love  !  How 
all  that  is  prudish  and  artificial  flees  before  it !  I  seem 
to  have  begun  a  new  life.  If  I  could  play  now,  it  would 
be  only  with  little  children.  Farewell !  be  great  —  a 
glorious  future  is  before  you  and  me  in  you  !  " 

Lancelot's  answer  must  remain  untold;  per- 
haps the  veil  has  been  already  too  far  lifted  which 
hides  the  sanctuary  of  such  love.  But,  alas !  to 
his  letter  no  second  had  been  returned;  and  he 
felt  —  though  he  dared  not  confess  it  to  himself 
—  a  gloomy  presentiment  of  evil  flit  across  him, 
as  he  thought  of  his  fallen  fortunes,  and  the 
altered  light  in  which  his  suit  would  be  regarded 


What 's  to  be  Done?  251 

by  Argemone's  parents.  Once  he  blamed  himself 
bitterly  for  not  having  gone  to  Mr.  Lavington 
the  moment  he  discovered  Argemone's  affection, 
and  insuring  —  as  he  then  might  have  done  —  his 
consent.  But  again  he  felt  that  no  sloth  had 
kept  him  back,  but  adoring  reverence  for  his 
God-given  treasure,  and  humble  astonishment  at 
his  own  happiness;  and  he  fled  from  the  thought 
into  renewed  examination  into  the  state  of  the 
masses,  the  effect  of  which  was  only  to  deepen 
his  own  determination  to  share  their  lot. 

But  at  the  same  time  it  seemed  to  him  but 
fair  to  live,  as  long  as  it  would  last,  on  that  part 
of  his  capital  which  his  creditors  would  have 
given  nothing  for  —  namely,  his  information; 
and  he  set  to  work  to  write.  But,  alas !  he  had 
but  a  "small  literary  connection;"  and  the  entree 
of  the  initiated  ring  is  not  obtained  in  a  day.  .  .  . 
Besides,  he  would  not  write  trash.  —  He  was  in 
far  too  grim  a  humor  for  that ;  and  if  he  wrote  on 
important  subjects,  able  editors  always  were  in 
the  habit  of  entrusting  them  to  old  contributors, 
—  men,  in  short,  in  whose  judgment  they  had 
confidence  —  not  to  say  anything  which  would 
commit  the  magazine  to  anything  but  its  own 
little  party-theory.  And  behold !  poor  Lancelot 
found  himself  of  no  party  whatsoever.  He  was 
in  a  minority  of  one  against  the  whole  world,  on 
all  points,  right  or  wrong.  He  had  the  unhap- 
piest  knack  (as  all  geniuses  have)  of  seeing  con- 
nections, humorous  or  awful,  between  the  most 
seemingly  antipodal  things ;  of  illustrating  every 
subject  from  three  or  four  different  spheres  which 
it  is  anathema  to  mention  in  the  same  page.  If 
he  wrote  a  physical-science  article,  able  editors 


252  Yeast 

asked  him  what  the  deuce  a  scrap  of  high-church 
ism  did  in  the  middle  of  it?  If  he  took  the  same 
article  to  a  high-church  magazine,  the  editor 
could  not  commit  himself  to  any  theory  which 
made  the  earth  more  than  six  thousand  years  old, 
and  was  afraid  that  the  public  taste  would  not 
approve  of  the  allusions  to  free-masonry  and 
Soyer's  soup.  .  .  .  And  worse  than  that,  one  and 
all  —  Jew,  Turk,  infidel,  and  heretic,  as  well  as 
the  orthodox  —  joined  in  pious  horror  at  his  irrev- 
erence ;  —  the  shocking  way  he  had  of  jumbling 
religion  and  politics  —  the  human  and  the  divine 
—  the  theories  of  the  pulpit  with  the  facts  of  the 
exchange.  .  .  .  The  very  atheists,  who  laughed 
at  him  for  believing  in  a  God,  agreed  that  that, 
at  least,  was  inconsistent  with  the  dignity  of  the 
God  —  who  did  not  exist.  .  .  .  It  was  Syncretism 
.  .  .  Pantheism.  .  .  . 

"Very  well,  friends,"  quoth  Lancelot  to  him- 
self, in  bitter  rage,  one  day,  "  if  you  choose  to  be 
without  God  in  the  world,  and  to  honor  Him  by 
denying  Him  .  .  .  do  so!  You  shall  have  your 
way;  and  go  to  the  place  whither  it  seems  lead- 
ing you  just  now,  at  railroad  pace.  But  I  must 
live.  .  .  .  Well,  at  least,  there  is  some  old  col- 
lege nonsense  of  mine,  written  three  years  ago, 
when  I  believed,  like  you,  that  all  heaven  and 
earth  was  put  together  out  of  separate  bits,  like  a 
child's  puzzle,  and  that  each  topic  ought  to  have 
its  private  little  pigeon-hole  all  to  itself  in  a 
man's  brain,  like  drugs  in  a  chemist's  shop. 
Perhaps  it  will  suit  you,  friends ;  perhaps  it  will 
be  system -frozen,  and  narrow,  and  dogmatic,  and 
cowardly,  and  godless  enough  for  you. "... 

So  he  went  forth  with   them   to   market;   and 


What's  to  be  Done?  253 

behold  !  they  were  bought  forthwith.  There  was 
verily  a  demand  for  such;  .  .  .  and  in  spite  of 
the  ten  thousand  ink-fountains  which  were  daily 
pouring  out  similar  Stygian  liquors,  the  public 
thirst  remained  unslaked.  "Well,"  thought 
Lancelot,  "the  negro  race  is  not  the  only  one 
which  is  afflicted  with  manias  for  eating  dirt. 
...  By  the  by,  where  is  poor  Luke?" 

Ah !  where  was  poor  Luke  ?  Lancelot  had 
received  from  him  one  short  and  hurried  note, 
blotted  with  tears,  which  told  how  he  had  in- 
formed his  father;  and  how  his  father  had  refused 
to  see  him,  and  had  forbid  him  the  house;  and 
how  he  had  offered  him  an  allowance  of  fifty 
pounds  a  year  (it  should  have  been  five  hundred, 
he  said,  if  he  had  possessed  it),  which  Luke's 
director,  sensibly  enough,  had  compelled  him  to 
accept.  .  .  .  And  there  the  letter  ended,  abruptly, 
leaving  the  writer  evidently  in  lower  depths  than 
he  had  either  experienced  already  or  expected  at 
all. 

Lancelot  had  often  pleaded  for  him  with  his 
father;  but  in  vain.  Not  that  the  good  man  was 
hard-hearted :  he  would  cry  like  a  child  about  it 
all  to  Lancelot  when  they  sat  together  after 
dinner.  But  he  was  utterly  beside  himself,  what 
with  grief,  shame,  terror,  and  astonishment.  On 
the  whole,  the  sorrow  was  a  real  comfort  to  him : 
it  gave  him  something  beside  his  bankruptcy  to 
think  of;  and,  distracted  between  the  two  differ- 
ent griefs,  he  could  brood  over  neither.  But  of 
the  two,  certainly  his  son's  conversion  was  the 
worst  in  his  eyes.  The  bankruptcy  was  intelli- 
gible —  measurable ;  it  was  something  known  and 
classified  —  part  of  the  ills  which  flesh  (or,  at 


254  Yeast 

least,  commercial  flesh)  is  heir  to.  But  going 
to  Rome ! 

"I  can't  understand  it.  I  won't  believe  it. 
It's  so  foolish,  you  see,  Lancelot  — so  foolish 
—  like  an  ass  that  eats  thistles  !  .  .  .  There  must 
be  some  reason ;  —  there  must  be  —  something  we 
don't  know,  sir!  Do  you  think  they  could  have 
promised  to  make  him  a  cardinal  ? " 

Lancelot  quite  agreed  that  there  were  reasons 
for  it,  that  they  —  or,  at  least,  the  banker  —  did 
not  know.  .  .  . 

"Depend  upon  it,  they  promised  him  some- 
thing—  some  prince-bishopric,  perhaps.  Else 
why  on  earth  could  a  man  go  over !  It 's  out  of 
the  course  of  nature  !  " 

Lancelot  tried  in  vain  to  make  him  understand 
that  a  man  might  sacrifice  everything  to  con- 
science, and  actually  give  up  all  worldly  weal  for 
what  he  thought  right.  The  banker  turned  on 
him  with  angry  resignation 

"Very  well  —  I  suppose  he's  done  right  then! 
I  suppose  you'll  go  next!  Take  up  a  false 
religion,  and  give  up  everything  for  it !  Why, 
then,  he  must  be  honest;  and  if  he 's  honest  he 's 
in  the  right ;  and  I  suppose  I  'd  better  go  too !" 

Lancelot  argued:  but  in  vain.  The  idea  of 
disinterested  sacrifice  was  so  utterly  foreign  to 
the  good  man's  own  creed  and  practice,  that  he 
could  but  see  one  pair  of  alternatives. 

"  Either  he  is  a  good  man,  or  he 's  a  hypocrite. 
Either  he  's  right,  or  he 's  gone  over  for  some  vile 
selfish  end ;  and  what  can  that  be  but  money  ?  " 

Lancelot  gently  hinted  that  there  might  be 
other  selfish  ends  besides  pecuniary  ones  —  sav- 
ing one's  soul,  for  instance. 


What's  to  be  Done?  255 

"Why,  if  he  wants  to  save  his  soul,  he  's  right. 
What  ought  we  all  to  do,  but  try  to  save  our 
souls?  I  tell  you  there's  some  sinister  reason. 
They've  told  him  that  they  expect  to  convert 
England  — •  I  should  like  to  see  them  do  it !  —  and 
that  he'll  be  made  a  bishop.  Don't  argue  with 
me,  or  you'll  drive  me  mad.  I  know  those 
Jesuits?" 

And  as  soon  as  he  began  upon  the  Jesuits, 
Lancelot  prudently  held  his  tongue.  The  good 
man  had  worked  himself  up  into  a  perfect  frenzy 
of  terror  and  suspicion  about  them.  He  suspected 
concealed  Jesuits  among  his  footmen  and  his 
housemaids ;  Jesuits  in  his  counting-house,  Jesuits 
in  his  duns.  .  .  . 

"  Hang  it,  sir !  how  do  I  know  that  there  ain't 
a  Jesuit  listening  to  us  now  behind  the  curtain  ?  " 

"I  '11  go  and  look,"  quoth  Lancelot,  and  suited 
the  action  to  the  word. 

"Well,  if  there  ain't  there  might  be.  They  're 
everywhere,  I  tell  you.  That  vicar  of  Whitford 
was  a  Jesuit.  I  was  sure  of  it  all  along ;  but  the 
man  seemed  so  pious;  and  certainly  he  did  my 
poor  dear  boy  a  deal  of  good.  But  he  ruined 
you,  you  know.  And  I  'm  convinced  —  no,  don't 
contradict  me;  I  tell  you,  I  won't  stand  it  — 
I  'm  convinced  that  this  whole  mess  of  mine  is  a 
plot  of  those  rascals;  —  I  'm  as  certain  of  it  as  if 
they'd  told  me!" 

"For  what  end?" 

"  How  the  deuce  can  I  tell  ?  Am  I  a  Jesuit, 
to  understand  their  sneaking,  underhand  —  pah! 
I  'm  sick  of  life !  Nothing  but  rogues  wherever 
one  turns ! " 

And  then  Lancelot  used  to  try  to  persuade  him 


256  Yeast 

to  take  poor  Luke  back  again.     But  vague  terror 
had  steeled  his  heart. 

"What!  Why,  he'd  convert  us  all!  He'd 
convert  his  sisters!  He'd  bring  his  priests  in 
here,  or  his  nuns  disguised  as  ladies'  maids,  and 
we  should  all  go  over,  every  one  of  us,  like  a  set 
of  nine-pins !  " 

"You  seem  to  think  Protestantism  a  rather 
shaky  cause,  if  it  is  so  easy  to  be  upset." 

"Sir!  Protestantism  is  the  cause  of  England 
and  Christianity,  and  civilization,  and  freedom, 
and  common  sense,  sir !  and  that 's  the  very  reason 
why  it 's  so  easy  to  pervert  men  from  it;  and  the 
very  reason  why  it's  a  lost  cause,  and  Popery, 
and  Antichrist,  and  the  gates  of  hell  are  coming 
in  like  a  flood  to  prevail  against  it !  " 

"Well,"  thought  Lancelot,  "that  is  the  very 
strangest  reason  for  its  being  a  lost  cause !  Per- 
haps if  my  poor  uncle  believed  it  really  to  be  the 
cause  of  God  Himself,  he  would  not  be  in  such 
extreme  fear  for  it,  or  fancy  it  required  such  a 
hotbed  and  greenhouse  culture.  .  .  .  Really,  if 
his  sisters  were  little  girls  of  ten  years  old,  who 
looked  up  to  him  as  an  oracle,  there  would  be 
some  reason  in  it.  ...  But  those  tall,  ball- 
going,  flirting,  self-satisfied  cousins  of  mine  — 
who  would  have  been  glad  enough,  either  of 
them,  two  months  ago,  to  snap  up  me,  infidelity, 
bad  character,  and  all,  as  a  charming  rich  young 
rout —  if  they  have  not  learnt  enough  Protestant- 
ism in  the  last  five-and -twenty  years  to  take  care 
of  themselves,  Protestantism  must  have  very  few 
allurements,  or  else  be  very  badly  carried  out  in 
practice  by  those  who  talk  loudest  in  favor  of  it. 
.  .  o  I  heard  them  praising  O'Blareaway's  '  rain- 


What's  to  be  Done?  257 

istry, '  by  the  by,  the  other  day.  So  he  is  up  in 
town  at  last  —  at  the  summit  of  his  ambition. 
Well,  he  may  suit  them.  I  wonder  how  many 
young  creatures  like  Argemone  and  Luke  he 
would  keep  from  Popery!" 

But  there  was  no  use  arguing  with  a  man  in 
such  a  state  of  mind;  and  gradually  Lancelot 
gave  it  up,  in  hopes  that  time  would  bring  the 
good  man  to  his  sane  wits  again,  and  that  a 
father's  feelings  would  prove  themselves  stronger, 
because  more  divine,  than  a  so-called  Protestant's 
fears,  though  that  would  have  been,  in  the 
banker's  eyes,  and  in  the  Jesuit's  also  —  so  do 
extremes  meet  —  the  very  reason  for  expecting 
them  to  be  the  weaker;  for  it  is  the  rule  with  all 
bigots  that  the  right  cause  is  always  a  lost  cause, 
and  therefore  requires  —  God's  weapons  of  love, 
truth,  and  reason  being  well  known  to  be  too 
weak  —  to  be  defended,  if  it  is  to  be  saved,  with 
the  devil's  weapons  of  bad  logic,  spite,  and 
calumny. 

At  last,  in  despair  of  obtaining  tidings  of  his 
cousin  by  any  other  method,  Lancelot  made  up 
his  mind  to  apply  to  a  certain  remarkable  man, 
whose  "conversion"  had  preceded  Luke's  about 
a  year,  and  had,  indeed,  mainly  caused  it. 

He  went,  .  .  .  and  was  not  disappointed. 
With  the  most  winning  courtesy  and  sweetness, 
his  story  and  his  request  were  patiently  listened  to. 

"The  outcome  of  your  speech,  then,  my  dear 
sir,  as  I  apprehend  it,  is  a  request  to  me  to  send 
.back  the  fugitive  lamb  into  the  jaws  of  the  well- 
meaning,  but  still  lupine  wolf?" 

This  was  spoken  with  so  sweet  and  arch  a 
smile,  that  it  was  impossible  to  be  angry. 


258  Yeast 

"  On  my  honor,  I  have  no  wish  to  convert  him. 
All  I  want  is  to  have  human  speech  of  him  —  to 
hear  from  his  own  lips  that  he  is  content. 
Whither  should  I  convert  him?  Not  to  my  own 
platform  —  for  I  am  nowhere.  Not  to  that  which 
he  has  left,  ...  for  if  he  could  have  found 
standing  ground  there,  he  would  not  have  gone 
elsewhere  for  rest." 

"Therefore  they  went  out  from  you,  because 
they  were  not  of  you,"  said  the  "Father,"  half 
aside. 

"Most  true,  sir.  I  have  felt  long  that  argu- 
ment was  bootless  with  those  whose  root-ideas  of 
Deity,  man,  earth,  and  heaven,  were  as  utterly 
different  from  my  own,  as  if  we  had  been  created 
by  two  different  beings." 

"  Do  you  include  in  that  catalogue  those  ideas 
of  truth,  love,  and  justice,  which  are  Deity  itself? 
Have  you  no  common  ground  in  them  ? " 

"You  are  an  elder  and  a  better  man  than  L 
...  It  would  be  insolent  in  me  to  answer  that 
question,  except  in  one  way,  .  .  .  and " 

"  In  that  you  cannot  answer  it.  Be  it  so.  ... 
You  shall  see  your  cousin.  You  may  make  what 
efforts  you  will  for  his  re-conversion.  The 
Catholic  Church,"  continued  he,  with  one  of  his 
arch,  deep-meaning  smiles,  "is  not,  like  popular 
Protestantism,  driven  into  shrieking  terror  at  the 
approach  of  a  foe.  She  has  too  much  faith  in 
herself,  and  in  Him  who  gives  to  her  the  power 
of  truth,  to  expect  every  gay  meadow  to  allure 
away  her  lambs  from  the  fold." 

"I  assure  you  that  your  gallant  permission  is 
unnecessary.  I  am  beginning,  at  least,  to  believe 
that  there  is  a  Father  in  Heaven  who  educates 


What's  to  be  Done?  259 

His  children;  and  I  have  no  wish  to  interfere 
with  His  methods.  Let  my  cousin  go  his  way 
...  he  will  learn  something  which  he  wanted, 
I  doubt  not,  on  his  present  path,  even  as  I  shall 
on  mine.  '  Se  tu  segui  la  tua  Stella  '  is  my  motto. 
.  .  .  Let  it  be  his  too,  wherever  the  star  may 
guide  him.  If  it  be  a  will-o'-the-wisp,  and  lead 
to  the  morass,  he  will  only  learn  how  to  avoid 
morasses  better  for  the  future." 

"  Ave  Marts  stella  /  It  is  the  star  of  Bethlehem 
which  he  follows  .  .  .  the  star  of  Mary,  immacu- 
late, all-loving ! "  .  .  .  And  he  bowed  his  head 
reverently.  "Would  that  you,  too,  would  sub- 
mit yourself  to  that  guidance!  .  .  .  You,  too, 
would  seem  to  want  some  loving  heart  whereon 
to  rest. "... 

Lancelot  sighed.  "I  am  not  a  child,  but  a 
man ;  I  want  not  a  mother  to  pet,  but  a  man  to 
rule  me." 

Slowly  his  companion  raised  his  thin  hand, 
and  pointed  to  the  crucifix,  which  stood  at  the 
other  end  of  the  apartment. 

"Behold  him!"  and  he  bowed  his  head  once 
more  .  .  .  and  Lancelot,  he  knew  not  why,  did 
the  same  .  .  .  and  yet  in  an  instant  he  threw  his 
head  up  proudly,  and  answered  with  George 
Fox's  old  reply  to  the  Puritans: 

"I  want  a  live  Christ,  not  a  dead  one.  .  .  . 
That  is  noble  .  .  .  beautiful  ...  it  may  be 
true.  .  .  .  But  it  has  no  message  for  me." 

"He  died  for  you." 

"  I  care  for  the  world,  and  not  myself. " 

"He  died  for  the  world." 

"And  has  deserted  it,  as  folks  say  now,  and 
become  —  an  absentee,  performing  His  work  by 


260  Yeast 

deputies.  ...  Do  not  start;  the  blasphemy  is 
not  mine,  but  those  who  preach  it.  No  wonder 
that  the  owners  of  the  soil  think  it  no  shame  to 
desert  their  estates,  when  preachers  tell  them 
that  He  to  whom  they  say  all  power  is  given  in 
heaven  and  earth,  has  deserted  His." 

"  What  would  you  have,  my  dear  sir  ? "  asked 
the  father. 

"What  the  Jews  had.  A  king  of  my  nation, 
and  of  the  hearts  of  my  nation,  who  would  teach 
soldiers,  artists,  craftsmen,  statesmen,  poets, 
priests,  if  priests  there  must  be.  I  want  a  human 
lord,  who  understands  me  and  the  millions  round 
me,  pities  us,  teaches  us,  orders  our  history, 
civilization,  development  for  us.  I  come  to  you, 
full  of  manhood,  and  you  send  me  to  a  woman. 
I  go  to  the  Protestants,  full  of  desires  to  right 
the  world  —  and  they  begin  to  talk  of  the  next 
life,  and  give  up  this  as  lost ! " 

A  quiet  smile  lighted  up  the  thin  wan  face, 
full  of  unfathomable  thoughts;  and  he  replied, 
again  half  to  himself,  — 

"Am  I  God,  to  kill  or  to  make  alive,  that  thou 
sendest  to  me  to  recover  a  man  of  his  leprosy? 
Farewell.  You  shall  see  your  cousin  here  at 
noon  to-morrow.  You  will  not  refuse  my  bless- 
ing, or  my  prayers,  even  though  they  be  offered 
to  a  mother?" 

"I  will  refuse  nothing  in  the  form  of  human 
love."  And  the  father  blessed  him  fervently, 
and  he  went  out.  .  .  . 

"  What  a  man ! "  said  he  to  himself,  "  or  rather 
the  wreck  of  what  a  man !  Oh,  for  such  a  heart, 
with  the  thews  and  sinews  of  a  truly  English 
brain!" 


What 's  to  be  Done  ?  261 

Next  day  he  met  Luke  in  that  room.  Their  talk 
was  short  and  sad.  Luke  was  on  the  point  of  en- 
tering an  order  devoted  especially  to  the  worship 
of  the  Blessed  Virgin. 

"  My  father  has  cast  me  out  ...  I  must  go  to  her 
feet.  She  will  have  mercy,  though  man  has  none." 

"  But  why  enter  the  order?  Why  take  an  irrevo- 
cable step  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  irrevocable ;  because  I  shall  enter 
an  utterly  new  life,  in  which  old  things  shall  pass 
away,  and  all  things  become  new,  and  I  shall  forget 
the  very  names  of  Parent,  Englishman,  Citizen,  — 
the  very  existence  of  that  strange  Babel  of  man's 
building,  whose  roar  and  moan  oppress  me  every 
time  I  walk  the  street.  Oh,  for  solitude,  meditation, 
penance !  Oh,  to  make  up  by  bitter  self-punish- 
ment my  ingratitude  to  her  who  has  been  leading 
me  unseen,  for  years,  home  to  her  bosom? — The 
all-prevailing  mother,  daughter  of  Gabriel,  spouse 
of  Deity,  flower  of  the  earth,  whom  I  have  so  long 
despised !  Oh,  to  follow  the  example  of  the 
blessed  Mary  of  Oignies,  who  every  day  inflicted 
on  her  most  holy  person  eleven  hundred  stripes  io 
honor  of  that  all-perfect  maiden !  " 

"  Such  an  honor,  I  could  have  thought,  would 
have  pleased  better  Kali,  the  murder-goddess  of  the 
Thugs,"  thought  Lancelot  to  himself;  but  he  had 
not  the  heart  to  say  it,  and  he  only  replied : 

"So  torture  propitiates  the  Virgin?  That  ex- 
plains the  strange  story  I  read  lately,  of  her  hav- 
ing appeared  in  the  Cevennes,  and  informed  the 
peasantry  that  she  had  sent  the  potato  disease  on 
account  of  their  neglecting  her  shrines ;  that  unless 
they  repented,  she  would  next  year  destroy  their 
cattle ;  and  the  third  year,  themselves." 


262  Yeast 

"  Why  not?  "  asked  poor  Luke. 

"  Why  not,  indeed  ?  If  God  is  to  be  capricious, 
proud,  revengeful,  why  not  the  Son  of  God  ?  And 
if  the  Son  of  God,  why  not  His  mother?  " 

"  You  judge  spiritual  feelings  by  the  carnal  test 
of  the  understanding;  your  Protestant  horror  of 
asceticism  lies  at  the  root  of  all  you  say.  How 
can  you  comprehend  the  self-satisfaction,  the 
absolute  delight,  of  self-punishment?  " 

"  So  far  from  it,  I  have  always  had  an  infinite 
respect  for  asceticism,  as  a  noble  and  manful 
thing  —  the  only  manful  thing  to  my  eyes  left  in 
Popery ;  and  fast  dying  out  of  that  under  Jesuit 
influence.  You  recollect  the  quarrel  between  the 
Tablet  and  the  Jesuits,  over  Faber's  unlucky  hon- 
esty about  St.  Rose  of  Lima?  .  .  .  But,  really, 
as  long  as  you  honor  asceticism  as  a  means  of 
appeasing  the  angry  deities,  I  shall  prefer  to  St 
Dominic's  cuirass  or  St.  Hedwiga's  chilblains, 
John  Mytton's  two  hours'  crawl  on  the  ice  in  his 
shirt,  after  a  flock  of  wild  ducks.  They  both  en- 
dured like  heroes;  but  the  former  for  a  selfish,  if 
not  a  blasphemous  end;  the  latter,  as  a  man 
should,  to  test  and  strengthen  his  own  powers  of 
endurance.  .  .  .  There,  I  will  say  no  more.  Go 
your  way,  in  God's  name.  There  must  be  lessons 
to  be  learnt  in  all  strong  and  self-restraining 
action.  ...  So  you  will  learn  something  from 
the  scourge  and  the  hair-shirt.  We  must  all  take 
the  bitter  medicine  of  suffering,  I  suppose." 

"  And,  therefore,  I  am  the  wiser,  in  forcing  the 
draught  on  myself. " 

"  Provided  it  be  the  right  draught,  and  do  not 
require  another  and  still  bitterer  one  to  expel  the 
effects  of  the  poison.  I  have  no  faith  in  people's 


What 's  to  be  Done  ?  263 

doctoring  themselves,  either  physically  or  spirit- 
ually." 

"  I  am  not  my  own  physician ;  I  follow  the  rules 
of  an  infallible  Church,  and  the  examples  of  her 
canonized  saints." 

"  Well  .  .  .  perhaps  they  may  have  known  what 
was  best  for  themselves.  .  .  .  But  as  for  you  and 
me  here,  in  the  year  1849  •  •  •  However,  we  shall 
argue  on  forever.  Forgive  me  if  I  have  offended 
you." 

"  I  am  not  offended.  The  Catholic  Church  has 
always  been  a  persecuted  one." 

"  Then  walk  with  me  a  little  way,  and  I  will 
persecute  you  no  more." 

"  Where  are  you  going?  " 

"  To  ...  To "  Lancelot  had  not  the  heart 

to  say  whither. 

"  To  my  father's  !  Ah  !  what  a  son  I  would  have 
been  to  him  now,  in  his  extreme  need  !  .  .  .  And  he 
will  not  let  me  !  Lancelot,  is  it  impossible  to  move 
him  ?  I  do  not  want  to  go  home  again  ...  to 
live  there  ...  I  could  not  face  that,  though  I 
longed  but  this  moment  to  do  it  I  cannot  face 
the  self-satisfied,  pitying  looks  .  .  .  the  everlasting 
suspicion  that  they  suspect  me  to  be  speaking 
untruths,  or  proselytizing  in  secret.  .  .  .  Cruel 
and  unjust !  " 

Lancelot  thought  of  a  certain  letter  of  Luke's 
.  .  .  but  who  was  he,  to  break  the  bruised 
reed? 

"  No ;  I  will  not  see  him.  Better  thus ;  better 
vanish,  and  be  known  only  according  to  the 
spirit  by  the  spirits  of  saints  and  confessors, 
and  their  successors  upon  earth.  No  !  I  will  die, 
and  give  no  sign." 


264  Yeast 

"  I  must  see  somewhat  more  of  you,  indeed." 

"  I  will  meet  you  here,  then,  two  hours  hence. 
Near  that  house  —  even  along  the  way  which 
leads  to  it  —  I  cannot  go.  It  would  be  too 
painful :  too  painful  to  think  that  you  were  walk- 
ing towards  it,  —  the  old  house  where  I  was  born 
and  bred  .  .  .  and  I  shut  out,  —  even  though  it 
be  for  the  sake  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven  !  " 

"  Or  for  the  sake  of  your  own  share  therein,  my 
poor  cousin  !  "  thought  Lancelot  to  himself,  "  which 
is  a  very  different  matter." 

"Whither,  after  you  have  been ?"  Luke 

could  not  get  out  the  word  home. 

"  To  Claude  Mellot's." 

"  I  will  walk  part  of  the  way  thither  with  you. 
But  he  is  a  very  bad  companion  for  you." 

"I  can't  help  that.  I  cannot  live;  and  I  am 
going  to  turn  painter.  It  is  not  the  road  in  which 
to  find  a  fortune ;  but  still,  the  very  sign-painters 
live  somehow,'  I  suppose.  I  am  going  this  very 
afternoon  to  Claude  Mellot,  and  enlist.  I  sold  the 
last  of  my  treasured  MSS.  to  a  fifth-rate  magazine 
this  morning,  for  what  it  would  fetch.  It  has  been 
like  eating  one's  own  children  —  but,  at  least,  they 
have  fed  me.  So  now  'to  fresh  fields  and 
pastures  new 


i  n 


CHAPTER  XV 

DEUS    EX    MACHINA 

WHEN  Lancelot  reached  the  banker's  a 
letter  was  put  into  his  hand ;  it  bore  the 
Whitford  postmark,  and  Mrs.  Lavington's  hand- 
writing. He  tore  it  open;  it  contained  a  letter 
from  Argemone,  which,  it  is  needless  to  say,  he 
read  before  her  mother's  :  — 

"  My  beloved  !  my  husband  !  —  Yes  —  though  you 
may  fancy  me  fickle  and  proud  —  I  will  call  you  so  to 
the  last;  for  were  I  fickle  I  could  have  saved  myself 
the  agony  of  writing  this ;  and  as  for  pride,  oh !  how 
that  darling  vice  has  been  crushed  out  of  me  !  I  have 
rolled  at  my  mother's  feet  with  bitter  tears,  and  vain 
entreaties  —  and  been  refused ;  and  yet  I  have  obeyed 
her  after  all.  We  must  write  to  each  other  no  more. 
This  one  last  letter  must  explain  the  forced  silence 
which  has  been  driving  me  mad  with  feara  that  you 
would  suspect  me.  And  now  you  may  call  me  weak ; 
but  it  is  your  love  which  has  made  me  strong  to  do 
this  — which  has  taught  me  to  see  with  new  intensity 
my  duty,  not  only  to  you,  but  to  every  human  being  — 
to  my  parents.  By  this  self-sacrifice  alone  can  I  atone 
to  them  for  all  my  past  undutifulness.  Let  me,  then, 
thus  be  worthy  of  you.  Hope  that  by  this  submission 
we  may  win  even  her  to  change.  How  calmly  I  write  ! 
but  it  is  only  my  hand  that  is  calm.  As  for  my  heart, 
read  Tennyson's  Fatima,  and  then  know  how  I  feel 
towards  you  !  Yes,  I  love  you  —  madly,  the  world  would 


266  Yeast 

say.  I  seem  to  understand  now  how  women  have  died 
of  love.  Ay,  that  indeed  would  be  blessed ;  for  then 
my  spirit  would  seek  out  yours,  and  hover  over  it  for- 
ever !  Farewell,  beloved !  and  let  me  hear  of  you 
through  your  deeds.  A  feeling  at  my  heart,  which 
should  not  be,  although  it  is,  a  sad  one,  tells  me  that  we 
shall  meet  soon  —  soon." 

Stupefied  and  sickened,  Lancelot  turned  care- 
lessly to  Mrs.  Lavington's  cover,  whose  blameless 
respectability  thus  uttered  itself: 

"I  cannot  deceive  you  or  myself  by  saying  I 
regret  that  providential  circumstances  should  have  been 
permitted  to  break  off  a  connection  which  I  always  felt 
to  be  most  unsuitable;  and  I  rejoice  that  the  inter- 
course my  dear  child  has  had  with  you  has  not  so  far 
undermined  her  principles  as  to  prevent  her  yielding 
the  most  filial  obedience  to  my  wishes  on  the  point  of 
her  future  correspondence  with  you.  Hoping  that  all 
that  has  occurred  will  be  truly  blessed  to  you,  and  lead 
your  thoughts  to  another  world,  and  to  a  true  concern 
for  the  safety  of  your  immortal  soul, 

"I  remain,  yours  truly, 

"C.  LAVINGTON." 

"Another  world!"  said  Lancelot  to  himself. 
"It  is  most  merciful  of  you,  certainly,  my  dear 
madame,  to  put  one  in  mind  of  the  existence  of 
another  world,  while  such  as  you  have  their  own 
way  in  this  one!"  and  thrusting  the  latter  epistle 
into  the  fire,  he  tried  to  collect  his  thoughts. 

What  had  he  lost?  The  oftener  he  asked  him- 
self, the  less  he  found  to  unman  him.  Argemone's 
letters  were  so  new  a  want,  that  the  craving  for 
them  was  not  yet  established.  His  intense  imagi- 
nation, resting  on  the  delicious  certainty  of  her 


Deus  ex  Machina"  267 

faith,  seemed  ready  to  fill  the  silence  with  bright 
hopes  and  noble  purposes.  She  herself  had  said 
that  he  would  see  her  soon.  But  yet  —  but  yet 

—  why  did  that   allusion  to  death   strike   chilly 
through  him  ?     They  were  but  words,  —  a  melan- 
choly fancy,  such  as  women  love  at  times  to  play 
with.     He   would   toss   it  from   him.     At   least 
here  was  another  reason  for  bestirring  himself  at 
once  to  win  fame  in  the  noble  profession  he  had 
chosen.     And  yet  his  brain  reeled  as  he  went 
upstairs  to  his  uncle's  private  room. 

There,  however,  he  found  a  person  closeted 
with  the  banker,  whose  remarkable  appearance 
drove  everything  else  out  of  his  mind.  He  was  a 
huge,  shaggy,  toil-worn  man,  the  deep  melan- 
choly earnestness  of  whose  rugged  features  re- 
minded him  almost  ludicrously  of  one  of  Landseer's 
bloodhounds.  But  withal  there  was  a  tenderness 

—  a  genial,  though  covert  humor  playing  about 
his  massive  features,  which  awakened  in  Lance- 
lot at  first  sight  a  fantastic  longing  to  open  his 
whole    heart  to   him.     He   was    dressed   like  a 
foreigner,  but  spoke  English  with  perfect  fluency. 
The  banker  sat  listening,  quite  crestfallen,  beneath 
his  intense  and  melancholy  gaze,  in  which,  never- 
theless,   there    twinkled    some    rays    of    kindly 
sympathy. 

"It  was  all  those  foreign  railways,"  said  Mr. 
Smith,  pensively. 

"And  it  serves  you  quite  right,"  answered  the 
stranger.  "Did  I  not  warn  you  of  the  folly  and 
sin  of  sinking  capital  in  foreign  countries  while 
English  land  was  crying  out  for  tillage,  and 
English  poor  for  employment  ? " 

"My   dear   friend"    (in    a   deprecatory    tone), 


268  Yeast 

"it  was  the  best  possible  investment  I  could 
make. " 

"And  pray,  who  told  you  that  you  were  sent 
into  the  world  to  make  investments  ? " 

"But " 

"  But  me  no  buts,  or  I  won't  stir  a  finger  towards 
helping  you.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with 
this  money  if  I  procure  it  for  you  ? " 

"Work  till  I  can  pay  back  that  poor  fellow's 
fortune,"  said  the  banker,  earnestly  pointing  to 
Lancelot.  "And  if  I  could  clear  my  conscience 
of  that,  I  would  not  care  if  I  starved  myself, 
hardly  if  my  own  children  did." 

"Spoken  like  a  man!"  answered  the  stranger; 
"work  for  that  and  I'll  help  you.  Be  a  new 
man,  once  and  for  all,  my  friend.  Don't  even 
make  this  younker  your  first  object.  Say  to 
yourself,  not  '  I  will  invest  this  money  where  it 
shall  pay  me  most,  but  I  will  invest  it  where  it 
shall  give  most  employment  to  English  hands, 
and  produce  most  manufactures  for  English 
bodies. '  In  short,  seek  first  the  kingdom  of  God 
and  His  justice  with  this  money  of  yours,  and 
see  if  all  other  things,  profits  and  such  like 
included,  are  not  added  unto  you." 

"And  you  are  certain  you  can  obtain  the 
money  ? " 

"My  good  friend  the  Begum  of  the  Cannibal 
Islands  has  more  than  she  knows  what  to  do  with ; 
and  she  owes  me  a  good  turn,  you  know." 

"  What  are  you  jesting  about  now  ?  " 

"  Did  I  never  tell  you  ?  The  new  king  of  the 
Cannibal  Islands,  just  like  your  European  ones, 
ran  away,  and  would  neither  govern  himself  nor 
let  any  one  else  govern;  so  one  morning  his 


Deus  ex  Machina  269 

ministers,  getting  impatient,  ate  him,  and  then 
asked  my  advice.  I  recommended  them  to  put 
his  mother  on  the  throne,  who,  being  old  and 
tough,  would  run  less  danger;  and  since  then 
everything  has  gone  on  smoothly  as  anywhere 
else." 

"  Are  you  mad  ?  "  thought  Lancelot  to  himself, 
as  he  stared  at  the  speaker's  matter-of-fact  face. 

"No,  I  am  not  mad,  my  young  friend,"  quoth 
he,  facing  right  round  upon  him,  as  if  he  had 
divined  his  thoughts. 

"I  —  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  did  not  speak," 
stammered  Lancelot,  abashed  at  a  pair  of  eyes 
which  could  have  looked  down  the  boldest  mes- 
merist in  three  seconds. 

"  I  am  perfectly  well  aware  that  you  did  not. 
I  must  have  some  talk  with  you:  I've  heard  a 
good  deal  about  you.  You  wrote  those  articles 

in  the Review  about  George  Sand,  did  you 

not?" 

"I  did."! 

"  Well,  there  was  a  great  deal  of  noble  feeling 
in  them,  and  a  great  deal  of  abominable  non- 
sense. You  seem  to  be  very  anxious  to  reform 
society  ? " 

"I  am." 

"Don't  you  think  you  had  better  begin  by 
reforming  yourself?" 

"Really,  sir,"  answered  Lancelot,  "I  am  too 
old  for  that  worn-out  quibble.  The  root  of  all 
my  sins  has  been  selfishness  and  sloth.  Am  I 
to  cure  them  by  becoming  still  more  selfish  and 
slothful?  What  part  of  myself  can  I  reform 
except  my  actions?  and  the  very  sin  of  my  actions 
has  been,  as  I  take  it,  that  I  've  been  doing  noth- 


270  Yeast 

ing  to  reform  others;  never  fighting  against  the 
world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil,  as  your  Prayer* 
book  has  it." 

"  My  Prayer-book  ? "  answered  the  stranger, 
with  a  quaint  smile. 

"Upon  my  word,  Lancelot,"  interposed  the 
banker,  with  a  frightened  look,  "you  must  not 
get  into  an  argument :  you  must  be  more  respect- 
ful: you  don't  know  to  whom  you  are  speaking." 

"And  I  don't  much  care,"  answered  he.  '"Life 
is  really  too  grim  earnest  in  these  days  to  stand 
on  ceremony.  I  am  sick  of  blind  leaders  of  the 
blind,  of  respectable  preachers  to  the  respectable, 
who  drawl  out  second-hand  trivialities,  which  they 
neither  practise  nor  wish  to  see  practised.  I  've 
had  enough  all  my  life  of  Scribes  and  Pharisees 
in  white  cravats,  laying  on  man  heavy  burdens, 
and  grievous  to  be  borne,  and  .then  not  touching 
them  themselves  with  one  of  their  fingers." 

"  Silence,  sir ! "  roared  the  banker,  while  the 
stranger  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  and  burst 
into  a  storm  of  laughter. 

"  Upon  my  word,  friend  Mammon,  here  *s 
another  of  Hans  Andersen's  ugly  ducks!" 

"I  really  do  not  mean  to  be  rude,"  said  Lan- 
celot, recollecting  himself,  "but  I  am  nearly 
desperate.  If  your  heart  is  in  the  right  place, 
you  will  understand  me !  if  not,  the  less  we  talk 
to  each  other  the  better." 

"Most  true,"  answered  the  stranger;  "and  I 
do  understand  you;  and  if,  as  I  hope,  we  see 
more  of  each  other  henceforth,  we  will  see  if  we 
cannot  solve  one  or  two  of  these  problems  between 
us." 

At  this  moment  Lancelot  was  summoned  down- 


Deus  ex  Machine  271 

stairs,  and  found,  to  his  great  pleasure,  Tregarva 
waiting  for  him.  That  worthy  personage  bowed 
to  Lancelot  reverently  and  distantly. 

"I  am  quite  ashamed  to  intrude  myself  upon 
you,  sir,  but  I  could  not  rest  without  coming  to 
ask  whether  you  have  had  any  news  —  "  He  broke 
down  at  this  point  in  the  sentence,  but  Lancelot 
understood  him. 

"  I  have  no  news,"  he  said.  "But  what  do  you 
mean  by  standing  off  in  that  way,  as  if  we  were 
not  old  and  fast  friends?  Remember,  I  am  as 
poor  as  you  are  now;  you  may  look  me  in  the 
face  and  call  me  your  equal,  if  you  will,  or  your 
inferior;  I  shall  not  deny  it." 

"Pardon  me,  sir,"  answered  Tregarva;  "but  I 
never  felt  what  a  real  substantial  thing  rank  is, 
as  I  have  since  this  sad  misfortune  of  yours." 

"And  I  have  never  till  now  found  out  its 
worthlessness." 

"You're  wrong,  sir,  you  are  wrong;  look  at 
the  difference  between  yourself  and  me.  When 
you  've  lost  all  you  have,  and  seven  times  more, 
you  're  still  a  gentleman.  No  man  can  take  that 
from  you.  You  may  look  the  proudest  duchess 
in  the  land  in  the  face,  and  claim  her  as  your 
equal ;  while  I,  sir,  —  I  don't  mean,  though,  to 
talk  of  myself  —  but  suppose  that  you  had  loved  a 
pious  and  a  beautiful  lady,  and  among  all  your 
worship  of  her,  and  your  awe  of  her,  had  felt  that 
you  were  worthy  of  her,  that  you  could  become 
her  comforter,  and  her  pride,  and  her  joy,  if  it 
wasn't  for  that  accursed  gulf  that  men  had  put 
between  you,  that  you  were  no  gentleman;  that 
you  did  n't  know  how  to  walk,  and  how  to  pro- 
nounce, and  when  to  speak,  and  when  to  be 


272  Yeast 

silent,  not  even  how  to  handle  your  own  knife 
and  fork  without  disgusting  her,  or  how  to  keep 

your  own  body  clean  and  sweet Ah,  sir,  I 

see  it  now  as  I  never  did  before,  what  a  wall  all 
these  little  defects  build  up  round  a  poor  man; 
how  he  longs  and  struggles  to  show  himself  as 
he  is  at  heart,  and  cannot,  till  he  feels  sometimes 
as  if  he  was  enchanted,  pent  up,  like  folks  in 
fairy  tales,  in  the  body  of  some  dumb  beast. 
But,  sir,"  he  went  on,  with  a  concentrated  bitter- 
ness which  Lancelot  had  never  seen  in  him 
before,  "just  because  this  gulf  which  rank  makes 
is  such  a  deep  one,  therefore  it  looks  to  me  all 
the  more  devilish ;  not  that  I  want  to  pull  down 
any  man  to  my  level ;  I  despise  my  own  level  too 
much;  I  want  to  rise;  I  want  those  like  me  to 
rise  with  me.  Let  the  rich  be  as  rich  as  they 
will.  —  I,  and  those  like  me,  covet  not  money, 
but  manners.  Why  should  not  the  workman  be 
a  gentleman,  and  a  workman  still?  Why  are 
they  to  be  shut  out  from  all  that  is  beautiful, 
and  delicate,  and  winning,  and  stately?" 

"Now  perhaps,"  said  Lancelot,  "you  begin  to 
understand  what  I  was  driving  at  on  that  night  of 
the  revel  ? " 

"It  has  come  home  to  me  lately,  sir,  bitterly 
enough.  If  you  knew  what  had  gone  on  in  me 
this  last  fortnight,  you  would  know  that  I  had 
cause  to  curse  the  state  of  things  which  brings  a 
man  up  a  savage  against  his  will,  and  cuts  him 
off,  as  if  he  were  an  ape  or  a  monster,  from  those 
for  whom  the  same  Lord  died,  and  on  whom  the 
same  Spirit  rests.  Is  that  God's  will,  sir?  No, 
it  is  the  devil's  will.  '  Those  whom  God  hath 
joined,  let  no  man  put  asunder. ' " 


Deus  ex  Machina  273 

Lancelot  colored,  for  he  remembered  with  how 
much  less  reason  he  had  been  lately  invoking  in 
his  own  cause  those  very  words.  He  was  at  a 
loss  for  an  answer;  but  seeing,  to  his  relief,  that 
Tregarva  had  returned  to  his  usual  impassive 
calm,  he  forced  him  to  sit  down,  and  began 
questioning  him  as  to  his  own  prospects  and 
employment. 

About  them  Tregarva  seemed  hopeful  enough. 
He  had  found  out  a  Wesleyan  minister  in  town 
"who  knew  him,  and  had,  by  his  means,  after 
assisting  for  a  week  or  two  in  the  London  City 
Mission,  got  some  similar  appointment  in  a 
large  manufacturing  town.  Of  the  state  of  things 
he  spoke  more  sadly  than  ever.  "  The  rich  can- 
not guess,  sir,  how  high  ill-feeling  is  rising  in 
these  days.  It 's  not  only  those  who  are  out- 
wardly poorest  who  long  for  change;  the  middling 
people,  sir,  the  small  town  shopkeepers  especially, 
are  nearly  past  all  patience.  One  of  the  City 
Mission  assured  me  that  he  has  been  watching 
them  these  several  years  past,  and  that  nothing 
could  beat  their  fortitude  and  industry,  and  their 
determination  to  stand  peaceably  by  law  and 
order;  but  yet,  this  last  year  or  two,  things  are 
growing  too  bad  to  bear.  Do  what  they  will, 
they  'cannot  get  their  bread ;  and  when  a  man 
cannot  get  that,  sir " 

"  But  what  do  you  think  is  the  reason  of  it  ? " 

"How  should  I  tell,  sir?  But  if  I  had  to  say, 
I  should  say  this  —  just  what  they  say  themselves 
—  that  there  are  too  many  of  them.  Go  where 
you  will,  in  town  or  country,  you'll  find  half-a- 
dozen  shops  struggling  for  a  custom  that  would 
only  keep  up  one,  and  so  they  're  forced  to  under- 
M— Vol.  V 


274  Yeast 

sell  one  another.  And  when  they've  got  down 
prices  all  they  can  by  fair  means,  they  're  forced 
to  get  them  down  lower  by  foul  —  to  sand  the 
sugar,  and  sloe-leave  the  tea,  and  put  —  Satan 
only  that  prompts  'em  knows  what  —  into  the 
bread;  and  then  they  don't  thrive  —  they  can't 
thrive;  God's  curse  must  be  on  them.  They 
begin  by  trying  to  oust  each  other,  and  eat  each 
other  up;  and  while  they're  eating  up  their 
neighbors,  their  neighbors  eat  up  them;  and  so 
they  all  come  to  ruin  together." 

"Why,  you  talk  like  Mr.  Mill  himself,  Tre- 
garva;  you  ought  to  have  been  a  political  econo- 
mist, and  not  a  City  missionary.  By  the  by,  I 
don't  like  that  profession  for  you." 

"It's  the  Lord's  work,  sir.  It's  the  very 
sending  to  the  Gentiles  that  the  Lord  promised 
me." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,  Paul ;  but  you  are  meant  for 
other  things,  if  not  better.  There  are  plenty  of 
smaller  men  than  you  to  do  that  work.  Do  you 
think  that  God  would  have  given  you  that 
strength,  that  brain,  to  waste  on  a  work  which 
could  be  done  without  them  ?  Those  limbs  would 
certainly  be  good  capital  for  you,  if  you  turned  a 
live  model  at  the  Academy.  Perhaps  you  'd 
better  be  mine;  but  you  can't  even  be  that  if 
you  go  to  Manchester." 

The  giant  looked  hopelessly  down  at  his  huge 
limbs. 

"  Well !  God  only  knows  what  use  they  are  of 
just  now.  But  as  for  the  brains,  sir  —  in  much 
learning  is  much  sorrow.  One  had  much  better 
work  than  read,  I  find.  If  I  read  much  more 
about  what  men  might  be,  and  are  not,  and  what 


Deus  ex  MachinS  275 

English  soil  might  be,  and  is  not,  I  shall  go 
mad.  And  that  puts  me  in  mind  of  one  thing  I 
came  here  for,  though,  like  a  poor  rude  country 
fellow  as  I  am,  I  clean  forgot  it  a  thinking 

of Look  here,  sir;  you  've  given  me  a  sight 

of  books  in  my  time,  and  God  bless  you  for  it. 
But  now  I  hear  that  —  that  you  are  determined 
to  be  a  poor  man  like  us;  and  that  you  sha'n't  be, 
while  Paul  Tregarva  has  aught  of  yours.  So  I  've 
just  brought  all  the  books  back,  and  there  they 
lie  in  the  hall ;  and  may  God  reward  you  for  the 
loan  of  them  to  His  poor  child!  And  so,  sir, 
farewell;"  and  he  rose  to  go. 

"No,  Paul;  the  books  and  you  shall  never 
part." 

"  And  I  say,  sir,  the  books  and  you  shall  never 
part." 

"  Then  we  two  can  never  part "  —  and  a  sudden 
Impulse  flashed  over  him  —  "and  we  will  not 
part,  Paul !  The  only  man  whom  I  utterly  love, 
and  trust,  and  respect  on  the  face  of  God's  earth, 
is  you ;  and  I  cannot  lose  sight  of  you.  If  we 
are  to  earn  our  bread,  let  us  earn  it  together ;  if 
we  are  to  endure  poverty,  and  sorrow,  and  struggle 
to  find  out  the  way  of  bettering  these  wretched 
millions  round  us,  let  us  learn  our  lesson  to- 
gether, and  help  each  other  to  spell  it  out." 

"Do  you  mean  what  you  say?"  asked  Paul, 
slowly. 

"I  do." 

"  Then  I  say  what  you  say.  Where  thou  goest, 
I  will  go;  and  where  thou  lodgest,  I  will  lodge. 
Come  what  will,  I  will  be  your  servant,  for  good 
luck  or  bad,  forever. " 

"  My  equal,  Paul,  not  my  servant. " 


276  Yeast 

"  I  know  my  place,  sir.  When  I  am  as  learned 
and  as  well-bred  as  you,  I  shall  not  refuse  to  call 
myself  your  equal ;  and  the  sooner  that  day  comes, 
the  better  I  shall  be  pleased.  Till  then  I  am 
your  friend  and  your  brother;  but  I  am  your 
scholar  too,  and  I  shall  not  set  up  myself  against 
my  master. " 

"I  have  learnt  more  of  you,  Paul,  than  ever 
you  have  learnt  of  me.  But  be  it  as  you  will; 
only  whatever  you  may  call  yourself,  we  must  eat 
at  the  same  table,  live  in  the  same  room,  and 
share  alike  all  this  world's  good  things  —  or  we 
shall  have  no  right  to  share  together  this  world's 
bad  things.  If  that  is  your  bargain,  there  is  my 
hand  on  it." 

"  Amen ! "  quoth  Tregarva ;  and  the  two  young 
men  joined  hands  in  that  sacred  bond  —  now 
growing  rarer  and  rarer  year  by  year  —  the  utter 
friendship  of  two  equal  manful  hearts. 

"And  now,  sir,  I  have  promised  —  and  you 
would  have  me  keep  my  promise  —  to  go  and  work 
for  the  City  Mission  in  Manchester  —  at  least,  for 
the  next  month,  till  a  young  man's  place  who  has 
just  left,  is  filled  up.  Will  you  let  me  go  for 
that  time?  and  then,  if  you  hold  your  present 
mind,  we  will  join  home  and  fortunes  thence- 
forth, and  go  wherever  the  Lord  shall  send  us. 
There 's  work  enough  of  His  waiting  to  be  done. 
I  don't  doubt  but  if  we  are  willing  and  able, 
He  will  set  us  about  the  thing  we're  meant 
for." 

As  Lancelot  opened  the  door  for  him,  he  lin- 
gered on  the  steps,  and  grasping  his  hand,  said 
in  a  low,  earnest  voice :  "  The  Lord  be  with  you, 
sir.  Be  sure  that  He  has  mighty  things  in  store 


Deus  ex  Machinzl  277 

for  you,  or  He  would  not  have  brought  you  so 
low  in  the  days  of  your  youth." 

"And  so,"  as  John  Bunyan  has  it,  "he  went 
on  his  way;"  and  Lancelot  saw  him  no  more 
till But  I  must  not  outrun  the  order  of  time. 

After  all,  this  visit  came  to  Lancelot  timely. 
It  had  roused  him  to  hope,  and  turned  off  his 
feelings  from  the  startling  news  he  had  just 
heard.  He  stepped  along  arm  in  arm  with  Luke, 
cheerful,  and  fate-defiant,  and  as  he  thought  of 
Tregarva's  complaints,  — 

"The  beautiful?"  he  said  to  himself,  "they 
shall  have  it !  At  least  they  shall  be  awakened 
to  feel  their  need  of  it,  their  right  to  it.  What 
a  high  destiny,  to  be  the  artist  of  the  people !  to 
devote  one's  powers  of  painting,  not  to  mimick- 
ing obsolete  legends,  Pagan  or  Popish,  but  to 
representing  to  the  working  men  of  England  the 
triumphs  of  the  Past  and  the  yet  greater  triumphs 
of  the  Future ! " 

Luke  began  at  once  questioning  him  about  his 
father. 

"And  is  he  contrite  and  humbled?  Does  he 
see  that  he  has  sinned  ? " 

"In  what?" 

"  It  is  not  for  us  to  judge ;  but  surely  it  must 
have  been  some  sin  or  other  of  his  which  has 
drawn  down  such  a  sore  judgment  on  him." 

Lancelot  smiled;  but  Luke  went  on,  not  per- 
ceiving him. 

"Ah!  we  cannot  find  out  for  him.  Nor  has 
he,  alas !  as  a  Protestant,  much  likelihood  of  find- 
ing out  for  himself.  In  our  holy  church  he  would 
have  been  compelled  to  discriminate  his  faults 
by  methodic  self-examination,  and  lay  them  one 


278  Yeast 

by  one  before  his  priest  for  advice  and  pardon, 
and  so  start  a  new  and  free  man  once  more." 

"Do  you  think,"  asked  Lancelot,  with  a  smile, 
"that  he  who  will  not  confess  his  faults  either  to 
God  or  to  himself,  would  confess  them  to  man? 
And  would  his  priest  honestly  tell  him  what  he 
really  wants  to  know  ?  which  sin  of  his  has  called 
down  this  so-called  judgment?  It  would  be 
imputed,  I  suppose,  to  some  vague  generality,  to 
inattention  to  religious  duties,  to  idolatry  of  the 
world,  and  so  forth.  But  a  Romish  priest  would 
be  the  last  person,  I  should  think,  who  could  tell 
him  fairly,  in  the  present  case,  the  cause  of  his 
affliction ;  and  I  question  whether  he  would  give  a 
patient  hearing  to  any  one  who  told  it  him." 

"How  so?  Though,  indeed,  I  have  remarked 
that  people  are  perfectly  willing  to  be  told  they 
are  miserable  sinners,  and  to  confess  themselves 
such,  in  a  general  way ;  but  if  the  preacher  once 
begins  to  specify,  to  fix  on  any  particular  act  or 
habit,  he  is  accused  of  personality  or  uncharita- 
bleness;  his  hearers  are  ready  to  confess  guilty 
to  any  sin  but  the  very  one  with  which  he  charges 
them.  But,  surely,  this  is  just  what  I  am  urging 
against  you  Protestants  —  just  what  the  Catholic 
use  of  confession  obviates. " 

"  Attempts  to  do  so,  you  mean ! "  answered 
Lancelot.  "  But  what  if  your  religion  preaches 
formally  that  which  only  remains  in  our  religion 
as  a  fast-dying  superstition  ?  —  That  those  judg- 
ments of  God,  as  you  call  them,  are  not  judg- 
ments at  all  in  any  fair  use  of  the  word,  but 
capricious  acts  of  punishment  on  the  part  of 
Heaven,  which  have  no  more  reference  to  the 
fault  which  provokes  them,  than  if  you  cut  off  a 


Deus  ex  Machimi  279 

man's  finger  because  he  made  a  bad  use  of  his 
tongue.  That  is  part,  but  only  a  part,  of  what  I 
meant  just  now,  by  saying  that  people  represent 
God  as  capricious,  proud,  revengeful. " 

"But  do  not  Protestants  themselves  confess 
that  our  sins  provoke  God's  anger?" 

"  Your  common  creed,  when  it  talks  rightly  of 
God  as  one  '  who  has  no  passions, '  ought  to  make 
you  speak  more  reverently  of  the  possibility  of 
any  act  of  ours  disturbing  the  everlasting  equa- 
nimity of  the  absolute  Love.  Why  will  men  so 
often  impute  to  God  the  miseries  which  they 
bring  upon  themselves  ? " 

"Because,  I  suppose,  their  pride  makes  them 
more  willing  to  confess  themselves  sinners  than 
fools." 

"Right,  my  friend;  they  will  not  remember 
that  it  is  of  '  their  pleasant  vices  that  God  makes 
whips  to  scourge  them. '  Oh,  I  at  least  have  felt 
the  deep  wisdom  of  that  saying'  of  Wilhelm 
Meister's  harper,  that  it  is 

'  Voices  from  the  depth  of  Nature  borne 
Which  woe  upon  the  guilty  head  proclaim.' 

Of  Nature  —  of  those  eternal  laws  of  hers  which 
we  daily  break.  Yes!  it  is  not  because  God's 
temper  changes,  but  because  God's  universe  is 
unchangeable,  that  such  as  I,  such  as  your  poor 
father,  having  sown  the  wind,  must  reap  the 
whirlwind.  I  have  fed  my  self-esteem  with 
luxuries  and  not  with  virtue,  and,  losing  them, 
have  nothing  left.  He  has  sold  himself  to  a 
system  which  is  its  own  punishment.  And  yet 
the  last  place  in  which  he  will  look  for  the  cause 
of  his  misery  is  in  that  very  money-mongering 


280  Yeast 

to  which  he  now  clings  as  frantically  as  ever. 
But  so  it  is  throughout  the  world.  Only  look 
down  over  that  bridge-parapet,  at  that  huge 
black-mouthed  sewer,  vomiting  its  pestilential 
riches  across  the  mud.  There  it  runs,  and  will 
run,  hurrying  to  the  sea  vast  stores  of  wealth, 
elaborated  by  Nature's  chemistry  into  the  ready 
materials  of  food;  which  proclaim,  too,  by  their 
own  foul  smell,  God's  will  that  they  should  be 
buried  out  of  sight  in  the  fruitful  all-regenerat- 
ing grave  of  earth:  there  it  runs,  turning  them 
all  into  the  seeds  of  pestilence,  filth,  and  drunk- 
enness. —  And  then,  when  it  obeys  the  laws 
which  we  despise,  and  the  pestilence  is  come  at 
last,  men  will  pray  against  it,  and  confess  it  to 
be  '  a  judgment  for  their  sins ; '  but  if  you  ask 
what  sin,  people  will  talk  about  '  les  -voiles 
cfairain,'  as  Fourier  says,  and  tell  you  that  it  is 
presumptuous  to  pry  into  God's  secret  counsels, 
unless,  perhaps,  some  fanatic  should  inform  you 
that  the  cholera  has  been  drawn  down  on  the 
poor  by  the  endowment  of  Maynooth  by  the  rich. " 

"  It  is  most  fearful,  indeed,  to  think  that  these 
diseases  should  be  confined  to  the  poor  —  that  a 
man  should  be  exposed  to  cholera,  typhus,  and  a 
host  of  attendant  diseases,  simply  because  he  is 
born  into  the  world  an  artisan;  while  the  rich, 
by  the  mere  fact  of  money,  are  exempt  from  such 
curses,  except  when  they  come  in  contact  with 
those  whom  they  call  on  Sunday  '  their  brethren,' 
and  on  week  days  the  '  masses. ' ' 

"Thank  Heaven  that  you  do  see  that, — that 
in  a  country  calling  itself  civilized  and  Christian, 
pestilence  should  be  the  peculiar  heritage  of  the 
poor!  It  is  past  all  comment." 


r 

Deus  ex  Machina  281 

"And  yet  are  not  these  pestilences  a  judg- 
ment, even  on  them,  for  their  dirt  and  profli- 
gacy ? " 

"  And  how  should  they  be  clean  without  water  ? 
And  how  can  you  wonder  if  their  appetites,  sick- 
ened with  filth  and  self-disgust,  crave  after  the 
gin-shop  for  temporary  strength,  and  then  for 
temporary  forgetf ulness  ?  Every  London  doctor 
knows  that  I  speak  the  truth;  would  that  every 
London  preacher  would  tell  that  truth  from  his 
pulpit ! " 

"Then  would  you  too  say,  that  God  punishes 
one  class  for  the  sins  of  another?" 

"Some  would  say,"  answered  Lancelot,  half- 
aside,  "that  He  maybe  punishing  them  for  not 
demanding  their  right  to  live  like  human  beings, 
to  all  those  social  circumstances  which  shall  not 
make  their  children's  life  one  long  disease.  But 
are  not  these  pestilences  a  judgment  on  the  rich, 
too,  in  the  truest  sense  of  the  word  ?  Are  they 
not  the  broad,  unmistakable  seal  to  God's 
opinion  of  a  state  of  society  which  confesses  its 
economic  relations  to  be  so  utterly  rotten  and 
confused,  that  it  actually  cannot  afford  to  save 
yearly  millions  of  pounds'  worth  of  the  materials 
of  food,  not  to  mention  thousands  of  human 
lives  ?  Is  not  every  man  who  allows  such  things 
hastening  the  ruin  of  the  society  in  which  he 
lives,  by  helping  to  foster  the  indignation  and 
fury  of  its  victims?  Look  at  that  group  of 
stunted,  haggard  artisans,  who  are  passing  us. 
What  if  one  day  they  should  call  to  account  the 
landlords  whose  covetousness  and  ignorance  make 
their  dwellings  hells  on  earth  ?  " 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  artist's  house. 


282  Yeast 

Luke  refused  to  enter.  .  .  .  "He  had  done 
with  this  world,  and  the  painters  of  this  world." 
.  .  .  And  with  a  tearful  last  farewell,  he  turned 
away  up  the  street,  leaving  Lancelot  to  gaze  at 
his  slow,  painful  steps,  and  abject,  earth-fixed 
mien. 

"  Ah ! "  thought  Lancelot,  "  here  is  the  end  of 
your  anthropology !  At  first,  your  ideal  man  is 
an  angel.  But  your  angel  is  merely  an  unsexed 
woman ;  and  so  you  are  forced  to  go  back  to  the 
humanity  after  all  —  but  to  a  woman,  not  a  man? 
And  this,  in  the  nineteenth  century,  when  men 
are  telling  us  that  the  poetic  and  enthusiastic 
have  become  impossible,  and  that  the  only  pos- 
sible state  of  the  world  henceforward  will  be  a 
universal  good-humored  hive,  of  the  Franklin- 
Benthamite  religion  .  .  .  a  vast  prosaic  Cockaigne 
of  steam  mills  for  grinding  sausages  —  for  those 
who  can  get  at  them.  And  all  the  while,  in  spite 
of  all  Manchester  schools,  and  high  and  dry 
orthodox  schools,  here  are  the  strangest  phan- 
tasms, new  and  old,  sane  and  insane,  starting  up 
suddenly  into  live  practical  power,  to  give  their 
prosaic  theories  the  lie  —  Popish  conversions, 
Mormonisms,  Mesmerisms,  Californias,  Conti- 
nental revolutions,  Paris  days  of  June.  .  .  .  Ye 
hypocrites!  ye  can  discern  the  face  of  the  sky, 
and  yet  ye  cannot  discern  the  signs  of  this 
time!" 

He  was  ushered  upstairs  to  the  door  of  his 
studio,  at  which  he  knocked,  and  was  answered 
by  a  loud  "  Come  in. "  Lancelot  heard  a  rustle 
as  he  entered,  and  caught  sight  of  a  most  charm- 
ing little  white  foot  retreating  hastily  through 
the  folding  doors  into  the  inner  room. 


Deus  ex  Machina  283 

The  artist,  who  was  seated  at  his  easel,  held 
up  his  brush  as  a  signal  of  silence,  and  did  not 
even  raise  his  eyes  till  he  had  finished  the  touches 
on  which  he  was  engaged. 

"  And  now  —  what  do  I  see !  —  the  last  man  I 
should  have  expected!  I  thought  you  v/ere  far 
down  in  the  country.  And  what  brings  you  to 
me  with  such  serious  and  business-like  looks?" 

"  I  am  a  penniless  youth " 

"What?" 

"Ruined  to  my  last  shilling,  and  I  want  to 
turn  artist" 

"  Oh,  ye  gracious  powers !  Come  to  my  arms, 
brother  at  last  with  me  in  the  holy  order  of  those 
who  must  work  or  starve.  Long  have  I  wept  in 
secret  over  the  pernicious  fulness  of  your  purse ! " 

"Dry  your  tears,  then,  now,"  said  Lancelot, 
"for  I  neither  have  ten  pounds  in  the  world,  nor 
intend  to  have  till  I  can  earn  them. " 

"Artist!"  ran  on  Mellot;  "ah!  you  shall  be 
an  artist,  indeed!  You  shall  stay  with  me  and 
become  the  English  Michael  Angelo;  or,  if  you 
are  fool  enough,  go  to  Rome,  and  utterly  eclipse 
Overbeck,  and  throw  Schadow  forever  into  the 
shade." 

"  I  fine  you  a  supper, "  said  Lancelot,  "  for  that 
execrable  attempt  at  a  pun. " 

"  Agreed !  Here,  Sabina,  send  to  Covent  Garden 
for  huge  nosegays,  and  get  out  the  best  bottle  of 
Burgundy.  We  will  pass  an  evening  worthy  of 
Horace,  and  with  garlands  and  libations  honor 
the  muse  of  painting." 

"Luxurious  dog!"  said  Lancelot,  "with  all 
your  cant  about  poverty." 

As  he  spoke,  the  folding  doors  opened,  and  an 


284  Yeast 

exquisite  little  brunette  danced  in  from  the 
inner  room,  in  which,  by  the  by,  had  been  going 
on  all  the  while  a  suspicious  rustling,  as  of  gar- 
ments hastily  arranged.  She  was  dressed  grace- 
fully in  a  loose  French  morning-gown,  down 
which  Lancelot's  eye  glanced  towards  the  little 
foot,  which,  however,  was  now  hidden  in  a  tiny 
velvet  slipper.  The  artist's  wife  was  a  real 
beauty,  though  without  a  single  perfect  feature, 
except  a  most  delicious  little  mouth,  a  skin  like 
velvet,  and  clear  brown  eyes,  from  which  beamed 
earnest  simplicity  and  arch  good  humor.  She 
darted  forward  to  her  husband's  friend,  while 
her  rippling  brown  hair,  fantastically  arranged, 
fluttered  about  her  neck,  and  seizing  Lancelot's 
hands  successively  in  both  of  hers,  broke  out  in 
an  accent  prettily  tinged  with  French: 

"Charming!  —  delightful!  And  so  you  are 
really  going  to  turn  painter!  And  I  have  longed 
so  to  be  introduced  to  you !  Claude  has  been 
raving  about  you  these  two  years;  you  already 
seem  to  me  the  oldest  friend  in  the  world.  You 
must  not  go  to  Rome.  We  shall  keep  you,  Mr. 
Lancelot;  positively  you  must  come  and  live 
with  us  —  we  shall  be  the  happiest  trio  in  Lon- 
don. I  will  make  you  so  comfortable :  you  must 
let  me  cater  for  you  —  cook  for  you." 

"  And  be  my  study  sometimes  ?  "  said  Lancelot, 
smiling. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  blushing,  and  shaking  her 
pretty  little  fist  at  Claude,  "that  madcap!  how 
he  has  betrayed  me!  When  he  is  at  his  easel, 
he  is  so  in  the  seventh  heaven  that  he  sees 
nothing,  thinks  of  nothing,  but  his  own  dreams." 

At  this  moment  a  heavy  step  sounded  on  the 


Deus  ex  Machina  285 

stairs,  the  door  opened,  and  there  entered,  to 
Lancelot's  astonishment,  the  stranger  who  had 
just  puzzled  him  so  much  at  his  uncle's. 

Claude  rose  reverentially,  and  came  forward, 
but  Sabina  was  beforehand  with  him,  and  running 
up  to  her  visitor,  kissed  his  hand  again  and  again, 
almost  kneeling  to  him. 

"  The  dear  master ! "  she  cried ;  "  what  a 
delightful  surprise !  we  have  not  seen  you  this 
fortnight  past,  and  gave  you  up  for  lost." 

"Where  do  you  come  from,  my  dear  master?" 
asked  Claude. 

"  From  going  to  and  fro  in  the  earth,  and  from 
walking  up  and  down  in  it,"  answered  he,  smil- 
ing, and  laying  his  finger  on  his  lips,  "my  dear 
pupils.  And  you  are  both  well  and  happy?" 

"Perfectly,  and  doubly  delighted  at  your 
presence  to-day,  for  your  advice  will  come  in  a 
providential  moment  for  my  friend  here." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  strange  man,  "  well  met  once 
more  !  So  you  are  going  to  turn  painter?  " 

He  bent  a  severe  and  searching  look  on 
Lancelot. 

"You  have  a  painter's  face,  young  man,"  he 
said;  "go  on  and  prosper.  What  branch  of  art 
do  you  intend  to  study  ? " 

"The  ancient  Italian  painters,  as  my  first  step." 

"Ancient?  it  is  not  four  hundred  years  since 
Perugino  died.  But  I  should  suppose  you  do  not 
intend  to  ignore  classic  art  ?  " 

"You  have  divined  rightly.  I  wish,  in  the 
study  of  the  antique,  to  arrive  at  the  primeval 
laws  of  unf alien  human  beauty." 

"  Were  Phidias  and  Praxiteles,  then,  so  prime- 
val ?  the  world  had  lasted  many  a  thousand  years 


286  Yeast 

before  their  turn  came.  If  you  intend  to  begin 
at  the  beginning,  why  not  go  back  at  once  to  the 
garden  of  Eden,  and  there  study  the  true  antique  ? " 

"If  there  were  but  any  relics  of  it,"  said 
Lancelot,  puzzled,  and  laughing. 

"  You  would  find  it  very  near  you,  young  man, 
if  you  had  but  eyes  to  see  it." 

Claude  Mellot  laughed  significantly,  and  Sabina 
clapped  her  little  hands. 

"  Yet  till  you  take  him  with  you,  master,  and 
show  it  to  him,  he  must  needs  be  content  with 
the  Royal  Academy  and  the  Elgin  marbles." 

"But  to  what  branch  of  painting,  pray,"  said 
the  master  to  Lancelot,  "will  you  apply  your 
knowledge  of  the  antique?  Will  you,  like  this' 
foolish  fellow  here"  (with  a  kindly  glance  at 
Claude),  "fritter  yourself  away  on  Nymphs  and 
Venuses,  in  which  neither  he  nor  any  one  else 
believes  ? " 

"  Historic  art,  as  the  highest,"  answered  Lance- 
lot, "is  my  ambition." 

"It  is  well  to  aim  at  the  highest,  but  only 
when  it  is  possible  for  us.  And  how  can  such  a 
school  exist  in  England  now?  You  English 
must  learn  to  understand  your  own  history  before 
you  paint  it.  Rather  follow  in  the  steps  of  your 
Turners,  and  Landseers,  and  Standfields,  and 
Creswicks,  and  add  your  contribution  to  the 
present  noble  school  of  naturalist  painters.  That 
is  the  niche  in  the  temple  which  God  has  set  you 
English  to  fill  up  just  now.  These  men's  patient, 
reverent  faith  in  Nature  as  they  see  her,  their 
knowledge  that  the  ideal  is  neither  to  be  invented 
nor  abstracted,  but  found  and  left  where  God  has 
put  it,  and  where  alone  it  can  be  represented,  in 


Deus  ex  Machini  287 

actual  and  individual  phenomena;  —  in  these  lies 
an  honest  development  of  the  true  idea  of  Prot- 
estantism, which  is  paving  the  way  to  the 
mesothetic  art  of  the  future." 

"  Glorious  !  "  said  Sabina :  "  not  a  single  word 
that  we  poor  creatures  can  understand  !  " 

But  our  hero,  who  always  took  a  virtuous  delight 
in  hearing  what  he  could  not  comprehend,  went  on 
to  question  the  orator. 

"  What,  then,  is  the  true  idea  of  Protestantism  ?  " 
said  he. 

"  The  universal  symbolism  and  dignity  of  matter, 
whether  in  man  or  nature." 

"  But  the  Puritans ?  " 

"  Were  inconsistent  with  themselves  and  with 
Protestantism,  and  therefore  God  would  not  allow 
them  to  proceed.  Yet  their  repudiation  of  all  art  was 
better  than  the  Judas-kiss  which  Romanism  bestows 
on  it,  in  the  meagre  eclecticism  of  the  ancient  re- 
ligious schools,  and  of  your  modern  Overbecks 
and  Pugins.  The  only  really  wholesome  designer 
of  great  power  whom  I  have  seen  in  Germany  is 
Kaulbach ;  and  perhaps  every  one  would  not  agree 
with  my  reasons  for  admiring  him,  in  this  white- 
washed age.  But  you,  young  sir,  were  meant  for 
better  things  than  art.  Many  young  geniuses  have 
an  early  hankering,  as  Goethe  had,  to  turn  painters. 
It  seems  the  shortest  and  easiest  method  of  em- 
bodying their  conceptions  in  visible  form ;  but 
they  get  wiser  afterwards,  when  they  find  in  them- 
selves thoughts  that  cannot  be  laid  upon  the  can- 
vas. Come  with  me  —  I  like  striking  while  the 
iron  is  hot;  walk  with  me  towards  my  lodgings, 
and  we  will  discuss  this  weighty  matter." 

And  with  a  gay  farewell  to  the  adoring  little 


288  Yeast 

Sabina,  he  passed  an  iron  arm  through  Lancelot's, 
and  marched  him  down  into  the  street. 

Lancelot  was  surprised  and  almost  nettled  at  the 
sudden  influence  which  he  found  this  quaint  per- 
sonage was  exerting  over  him.  But  he  had,  of 
late,  tasted  the  high  delight  of  feeling  himself 
under  the  guidance  of  a  superior  mind,  and  longed 
to  enjoy  it  once  more.  Perhaps  they  were  reminis- 
cences of  this  kind  which  stirred  in  him  the  strange 
fancy  of  a  connection,  almost  of  a  likeness,  between 
his  new  acquaintance  and  Argemone.  He  asked, 
humbly  enough,  why  Art  was  to  be  a  forbidden 
path  to  him? 

"  Besides,  you  are  an  Englishman,  and  a  man  of 
uncommon  talent,  unless  your  physiognomy  belies 
you;  and  one,  too,  for  whom  God  has  strange 
things  in  store,  or  He  would  not  have  so  suddenly 
and  strangely  overthrown  you." 

Lancelot  started.  He  remembered  that  Tre- 
garva  had  said  just  the  same  thing  to  him  that 
very  morning,  and  the  (to  him)  strange  coin- 
cidence sank  deep  into  his  heart. 

"  You  must  be  a  politician,"  the  stranger  went 
on.  "You  are  bound  to  it  as  your  birthright.  It 
has  been  England's  privilege  hitherto  to  solve  all 
political  questions  as  they  arise  for  the  rest  of  the 
world ;  it  is  her  duty  now.  Here,  or  nowhere, 
must  the  solution  be  attempted  of  those  social  prob- 
lems which  are  convulsing  more  and  more  all 
Christendom.  She  cannot  afford  to  waste  brains 
like  yours,  while  in  thousands  of  reeking  alleys, 
such  as  that  one  opposite  us,  heathens  and  savages 
are  demanding  the  rights  of  citizenship.  Whether 
they  be  right  or  wrong,  is  what  you,  and  such  as 
you,  have  to  find  out  at  this  day." 


Deus  ex  MachinS  289 

Silent  and  thoughtful,  Lancelot  walked  on  by  his 
side. 

"What  is  become  of  your  friend  Tregarva?  I 
met  him  this  morning  after  he  parted  from  you, 
and  had  some  talk  with  him.  I  was  sorely  minded 
to  enlist  him.  Perhaps  I  shall ;  in  the  meantime, 
I  shall  busy  myself  with  you." 

"  In  what  way,"  asked  Lancelot,  "  most  strange 
sir,  of  whose  name,  much  less  of  whose  occupa- 
tion, I  can  gain  no  tidings." 

"  My  name  for  the  time  being  is  Barnakill.  And 
as  for  business,  as  it  is  your  English  fashion  to  call 
new  things  obstinately  by  old  names,  careless 
whether  they  apply  or  not,  you  may  consider  me 
as  a  recruiting-sergeant;  which  trade,  indeed,  I 
follow,  though  I  am  no  more  like  the  popular  red- 
coated  ones  than  your  present  '  glorious  constitu- 
tion' is  like  William  the  Third's,  or  Overbeck's 
high  art  like  Fra  Angelico's.  Farewell !  When  I 
want  you,  which  will  be  most  likely  when  you  want 
me,  I  shall  find  you  again." 

The  evening  was  passed,  as  Claude  had  prom- 
ised, in  a  truly  Horatian  manner.  Sabina  was 
most  piquante,  and  Claude  interspersed  his  genial 
and  enthusiastic  eloquence  with  various  wise  saws 
of  "the  prophet." 

"  But  why  on  earth,"  quoth  Lancelot,  at  last, 
"do  you  call  him  a  prophet?" 

"  Because  he  is  one ;  it 's  his  business,  his  call- 
ing. He  gets  his  living  thereby,  as  the  showman 
did  by  his  elephant." 

"  But  what  does  he  foretell?  " 

"  Oh,  son  of  the  earth !  And  you  went  to 
Cambridge —  are  reported  to  have  gone  in  for  the 
thing,  or  phantom,  called  the  tripos,  and  taken  a 


290  Yeast 

first  class !  .  .  .  Did  you  ever  look  out  the  word 
'prophetes'  in  Liddell  and  Scott?" 

"  Why,  what  do  you  know  about  Liddell  and 
Scott?" 

"  Nothing,  thank  goodness ;  I  never  had  time  to 
waste  over  the  crooked  letters.  But  I  have  heard 
say  that  prophetes  means,  not  a  foreteller,  but  an 
out-teller  —  one  who  declares  the  will  of  a  deity, 
and  interprets  his  oracles.  Is  it  not  so?" 

"  Undeniably." 

"  And  that  he  became  a  foreteller  among 
heathens  at  least — as  I  consider,  among  all  peoples 
whatsoever  —  because  knowing  the  real  bearing 
of  what  had  happened,  and  what  was  happening, 
he  could  discern  the  signs  of  the  times,  and  so  had 
what  the  world  calls  a  shrewd  guess — what  I, 
like  a  Pantheist  as  I  am  denominated,  should  call  a 
divine  and  inspired  foresight  —  of  what  was  going 
to  happen." 

"  A  new  notion,  and  a  pleasant  one,  for  it  looks 
something  like  a  law." 

"  I  am  no  scollard,  as  they  would  say  in  Whit- 
ford,  you  know ;  but  it  has  often  struck  me,  that 
if  folks  would  but  believe  that  the  Apostles  talked 
not  such  very  bad  Greek,  and  had  some  slight 
notion  of  the  received  meaning  of  the  words  they 
used,  and  of  the  absurdity  of  using  the  same  term 
to  express  nineteen  different  things,  the  New 
Testament  would  be  found  to  be  a  much  simpler 
and  more  severely  philosophic  book  than  '  Theo- 
logians' ('Anthroposophists'  I  call  them)  fancy." 

"  Where  on  earth  did  you  get  all  this  wisdom, 
or  foolishness?  " 

"  From  the  prophet,  a  fortnight  ago." 

"  Who  is  this  prophet  ?    I  will  know." 


Deus  ex  Machint  291 

"  Then  you  will  know  more  than  I  do.  Sabina 
—  light  my  meerschaum,  there  's  a  darling;  it  will 
taste  the  sweeter  after  your  lips."  And  Claude 
laid  his  delicate  woman-like  limbs  upon  the  sofa, 
and  looked  the  very  picture  of  luxurious  non- 
chalance. 

"  What  is  he,  you  pitiless  wretch?  " 

"Fairest  Hebe,  fill  our  Prometheus  Vinctus 
another  glass  of  Burgundy,  and  find  your  guitar, 
to  silence  him." 

"  It  was  the  ocean  nymphs  who  came  to  comfort 
Prometheus  —  and  unsandalled,  too,  if  I  recollect 
right,"  said  Lancelot,  smiling  at  Sabina.  "  Come, 
now,  if  he  will  not  tell  me,  perhaps  you  will?" 

Sabina  only  blushed,  and  laughed  mysteriously. 

"You  surely  are  intimate  with  him,  Claude? 
When  and  where  did  you  meet  him  first?" 

"  Seventeen  years  ago,  on  the  barricades  of  the 
three  days,  in  the  charming  little  pandemonium 
called  Paris,  he  picked  me  out  of  a  gutter,  a  boy 
of  fifteen,  with  a  musket-ball  through  my  body; 
mended  me,  and  sent  me  to  a  painter's  studio. 
.  .  .  The  next  stjour  I  had  with  him  began  in 
sight  of  the  Demawend.  Sabina,  perhaps  you 
might  like  to  relate  to  Mr.  Smith  that  interview, 
and  the  circumstances  under  which  you  made 
your  first  sketch  of  that  magnificent  and  little- 
known  volcano?  " 

Sabina  blushed  again  —  this  time  scarlet ;  and, 
to  Lancelot's  astonishment,  pulled  off  her  slipper, 
and  brandishing  it  daintily,  uttered  some  unintelli- 
gible threat,  in  an  Oriental  language,  at  the  laugh- 
ing Claude. 

"Why,  you  must  have  been  in  the  East?" 

"Why   not!     Do  you   think   that   figure    and 


292  Yeast 

that  walk  were  picked  up  in  stay-ridden,  toe- 
pinching  England?  .  .  .  Ay,  in  the  East;  and 
why  not  elsewhere?  Do  you  think  I  got  my 
knowledge  of  the  human  figure  from  the  live- 
model  in  the  Royal  Academy  ? " 

"  I  certainly  have  always  had  my  doubts  of  it. 
You  are  the  only  man  I  know  who  can  paint 
muscle  in  motion." 

"Because  I  am  almost  the  only  man  in  Eng- 
land who  has  ever  seen  it.  Artists  should  go  to 
the  Cannibal  Islands  for  that.  .  .  .  f  ai  fait  le 
grand  tour.  I  should  not  wonder  if  the  prophet 
made  you  take  it. " 

"  That  would  be  very  much  as  I  chose. " 

"  Or  otherwise. " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  That  if  he  wills  you  to  go,  I  defy  you  to  stay. 
Eh,  Sabina!" 

"Well,  you  are  a  very  mysterious  pair,  — and 
a  very  charming  one." 

"  So  we  think  ourselves  —  as  to  the  charming- 
ness  .  .  .  and  as  for  the  mystery  .  .  .  'Omnia 
exeunt  in  mysterium^  says  somebody,  somewhere 
—  or  if  he  don't,  ought  to,  seeing  that  it  is  so. 
You  will  be  a  mystery  some  day,  and  a  myth, 
and  a  thousand  years  hence  pious  old  ladies  will 
be  pulling  caps  as  to  whether  you  were  a  saint  or 
a  devil,  and  whether  you  did  really  work  miracles 
or  not,  as  corroborations  of  your  ex-supra-lunar 
illumination  on  social  questions.  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  . 
you  will  have  to  submit,  and  see  Bogy,  and  enter 
the  Eleusinian  mysteries.  Eh,  Sabina  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Claude,  what  between  the  Burgundy 
and  your  usual  foolishness,  you  seem  very  much 
inclined  to  divulge  the  Eleusinian  mysteries." 


Deus  ex  Machinzl  293 

"I  can't  well  do  that,  my  beauty,  seeing  that, 
if  you  recollect,  we  were  both  turned  back  at  the 
vestibule,  for  a  pair  of  naughty  children  as  we 
are." 

"  Do  be  quiet !  and  let  me  enjoy,  for  once,  my 
woman's  right  to  the  last  word ! " 

And  in  this  hopeful  state  of  mystification, 
Lancelot  went  home,  and  dreamt  of  Argemone 

His  uncle  would,  and,  indeed,  as  it  seemed, 
could,  give  him  very  little  information  on  the 
question  which  had  so  excited  his  curiosity.  He 
had  met  the  man  in  India  many  years  before,  had 
received  there  from  him  most  important  kind- 
nesses, and  considered  him,  from  experience,  of 
oracular  wisdom.  He  seemed  to  have  an  un- 
limited command  of  money,  though  most  frugal 
in  his  private  habits;  visited  England  for  a  short 
time  every  few  years,  and  always  under  a  differ- 
ent appellation ;  but  as  for  his  real  name,  habita- 
tion, or  business,  here  or  at  home,  the  good 
banker  knew  nothing,  except  that  whenever  ques- 
tioned on  them,  he  wandered  off  into  Panta- 
gruelist  jokes,  and  ended  in  Cloudland.  So  that 
Lancelot  was  fain  to  give  up  his  questions  and 
content  himself  with  longing  for  the  reappearance 
of  this  inexplicable  sage. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

ONCE  IN  A  WAY 

A  FEW  mornings  afterwards,  Lancelot,  as  he 
glanced  his  eye  over  the  columns  of  the 
Times,  stopped  short  at  the  beloved  name  of 
Whitford.  To  his  disgust  and  disappointment, 
it  only  occurred  in  one  of  those  miserable  cases, 
now  of  weekly  occurrence,  of  concealing  the 
birth  of  a  child.  He  was  turning  from  it,  when 
he  saw  Bracebridge's  name.  Another  look  suf- 
ficed to  show  him  that  he  ought  to  go  at  once  to 
the  colonel,  who  had  returned  the  day  ^before 
from  Norway. 

A  few  minutes  brought  him  to  his  friend's 
lodging,  but  the  Times  had  arrived  there  before 
him.  Bracebridge  was  sitting  over  his  untasted 
breakfast,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands. 

"Do  not  speak  to  me,"  he  said,  without  look- 
ing up.  "  It  was  right  of  you  to  come  —  kind  of 
you ;  but  it  is  too  late. " 

He  started,  and  looked  wildly  round  him,  as  if 
listening  for  some  sound  which  he  expected,  and 
then  laid  his  head  down  on  the  table.  Lancelot 
turned  to  go. 

"No  —  do  not  leave  me!  Not  alone,  for  God's 
sake,  not  alone ! " 

Lancelot  sat  down.  There  was  a  fearful  alter- 
ation in  Bracebridge.  His  old  keen  self-confi- 
dent look  had  vanished.  He  was  haggard, 


Once  in  a  Way  295 

life-weary,  shame-stricken,  almost  abject.  His 
limbs  looked  quite  shrunk  and  powerless,  as  he 
rested  his  head  on  the  table  before  him,  and  mur- 
mured incoherently  from  time  to  time: 

"My  own    child!     And    I    never  shall    have 

another!     No  second  chance  for  those  who 

Oh  Mary!  Mary!  you  might  have  waited  —  you 
might  have  trusted  me  !  And  why  should  you  ? 

—  ay,  why,   indeed?    And  such  a  pretty  baby, 
too !  — just  like  his  father !  " 

Lancelot  laid  his  hand  kindly  on  his  shoulder. 

"  My  dearest  Bracebridge,  the  evidence  proves 
that  the  child  was  born  dead." 

"  They  lie !  "  he  said,  fiercely,  starting  up.  "  It 
cried  twice  after  it  was  born  !  " 

Lancelot  stood  horror-struck. 

"I  heard  it  last  night,  and  the  night  before 
that,  and  the  night  before  that  again,  under  my 
pillow,  shrieking  —  stifling  —  two  little  squeaks, 
like  a  caught  hare ;  and  I  tore  the  pillows  off  it 

—  I  did ;  and  once  I  saw  it,  and  it  had  beautiful 
black  eyes  —  just   like   its  father  —  just   like  a 
little  miniature  that  used  to  lie  on  my  mother's 
table,  when  I  knelt  at  her  knee,  before  they  sent 
me   out   '  to  see  life, '  and  Eton,  and  the  army, 
and  Crockford's,  and  Newmarket,  and  fine  gentle- 
men,   and   fine   ladies,  and  luxury,  and  flattery, 
brought   me   to   this!     Oh,    father!  father!   was 
that  the  only  way  to  make  a  gentleman  of  your 
son?  —  There  it  is  again!     Don't  you  hear  it?  — 
under  the  sofa-cushions !     Tear  them  off !     Curse 
you !     Save  it ! " 

And,  with  a  fearful  oath,  the  wretched  man 
sent  Lancelot  staggering  across  the  room,  and 
madly  tore  up  the  cushions. 


296  Yeast 

A  long  postman's  knock  at  the  door.  —  He  sud- 
denly rose  up  quite  collected. 

"The  letter!  I  knew  it  would  come.  She 
need  not  have  written  it :  I  know  what  is  in  it. " 

The  servant's  step  came  up  the  stairs.  Poor 
Bracebridge  turned  to  Lancelot  with  something 
of  his  own  stately  determination. 

"I  must  be  alone  when  I  receive  this  letter. 
Stay  here. "  And  with  compressed  lips  and  fixed 
eyes  he  stalked  out  at  the  door,  and  shut  it. 

Lancelot  heard  him  stop;  then  the  servant's 
footsteps  down  the  stairs;  then  the  colonel's 
treading,  slowly  and  heavily,  went  step  by  step 
up  to  the  room  above.  He  shut  that  door  too.  A 
dead  silence  followed.  Lancelot  stood  in  fearful 
suspense,  and  held  his  breath  to  listen.  Per- 
haps he  had  fainted?  No,  for  then  he  would 
have  heard  a  fall.  Perhaps  he  had  fallen  on  the 
bed  ?  He  would  go  and  see.  No,  he  would  wait 
a  little  longer.  Perhaps  he  was  praying?  He 
had  told  Lancelot  to  pray  once  —  he  dared  not 
interrupt  him  now.  A  slight  stir  —  a  noise  as  of 
an  opening  box.  Thank  God,  he  was,  at  least, 
alive !  Nonsense !  Why  should  he  not  be  alive? 
What  could  happen  to  him?  And  yet  he  knew 
that  something  was  going  to  happen.  The 
silence  was  ominous  —  unbearable;  the  air  of  the 
room  felt  heavy  and  stifling,  as  if  a  thunderstorm 
were  about  to  burst.  He  longed  to  hear  the 
man  raging  and  stamping.  And  yet  he  could  not 
connect  the  thought  of  one  so  gay  and  full  of 
gallant  life,  with  the  terrible  dread  that  was 
creeping  over  him  —  with  the  terrible  scene  which 
he  had  just  witnessed.  It  must  be  all  a  temporary 
excitement  —  a  mistake  —  a  hideous  dream,  which 


Once  in  a  Way  297 

the  next  post  would  sweep  away.  He  would  go 
and  tell  him  so.  No,  he  could  not  stir.  His 
limbs  seemed  leaden,  his  feet  felt  rooted  to  the 
ground,  as  in  long  nightmare.  And  still  the 
intolerable  silence  brooded  overhead. 

What  broke  it  ?  A  dull,  stifled  report,  as  of  a 
pistol  fired  against  the  ground ;  a  heavy  fall ;  and 
again  the  silence  of  death. 

He  rushed  upstairs.  A  corpse  lay  on  its  face 
upon  the  floor,  and  from  among  its  hair,  a  crimson 
thread  crept  slowly  across  the  carpet.  It  was  all 
over.  He  bent  over  the  head,  but  one  look  was 
sufficient.  He  did  not  try  to  lift  it  up. 

On  the  table  lay  the  fatal  letter.  Lancelot 
knew  that  he  had  a  right  to  read  it.  It  was 
scrawled,  mis-spelt  —  but  there  were  no  tear- 
blots  on  the  paper: 

"  SIR  —  I  am  in  prison  —  and  where  are  you  ?  Cruel 
man  !  Where  were  you  all  those  miserable  weeks,  while 
I  was  coming  nearer  and  nearer  to  my  shame  ?  Murder- 
ing dumb  beasts  in  foreign  lands.  You  have  murdered 
more  than  them.  How  I  loved  you  once  !  How  I  hate 
you  now  !  But  I  have  my  revenge.  Your  baby  cried 
twice  after  it  was  bom!" 

Lancelot  tore  the  letter  into  a  hundred  pieces, 
and  swallowed  them,  for  every  foot  in  the  house 
was  on  the  stairs. 

So  there  was  terror,  and  confusion,  and  running 
in  and  out:  but  there  were  no  wet  eyes  there 
except  those  of  Bracebridge's  groom,  who  threw 
himself  on  the  body,  and.  would  not  stir.  And 
then  there  was  a  coroner's  inquest;  and  it  came 
out  in  the  evidence  how  "  the  deceased  had  been 
for  several  days  very  much  depressed,  and  had 
N— Vol.  V 


298  Yeast 

talked  of  voices  and  apparitions ; "  whereat  the 
jury  —  as  twelve  honest,  good-natured  Christians 
were  bound  to  do  —  returned  a  verdict  of  tempo- 
rary insanity;  and  in  a  week  more  the  penny-a- 
liners  grew  tired;  and  the  world,  too,  who  never 
expects  anything,  not  even  French  revolutions, 
grew  tired  also  of  repeating,  "  Dear  me !  who 
would  have  expected  it?"  and  having  filled  up 
the  colonel's  place,  swaggered  on  as  usual,  arm- 
in-arm  with  the  flesh  and  the  devil. 

Bracebridge's  death  had,  of  course,  a  great 
effect  on  Lancelot's  spirit.  Not  in  the  way  of 
warning,  though  —  such  events  seldom  act  in  that 
way,  on  the  highest  as  well  as  on  the  lowest 
minds.  After  all,  your  "Rakes'  Progresses," 
and  "Atheists'  Deathbeds,"  do  no  more  good 
than  noble  George  Cruikshank's  "  Bottle "  will, 
because  every  one  knows  that  they  are  the  excep- 
tion, and  not  the  rule ;  that  the  Atheist  generally 
dies  with  a  conscience  as  comfortably  callous  as 
a  rhinoceros-hide;  and  the  rake,  when  old  age 
stops  his  power  of  sinning,  becomes  generally 
rather  more  respectable  than  his  neighbors.  The 
New  Testament  deals  very  little  in  appeals  ad 
terrorem;  and  it  would  be  well  if  some,  who  fancy 
that  they  follow  it,  would  do  the  same,  and  by 
abstaining  from  making  "hell-fire"  the  chief 
incentive  of  virtue,  cease  from  tempting  many  a 
poor  fellow  to  enlist  on  the  devil's  side  the  only 
manly  feeling  he  has  left  —  personal  courage. 

But  yet  Lancelot  was  affected.  And  when, 
on  the  night  of  the  colonel's  funeral,  he  opened, 
at  hazard,  Argemone's  Bible,  and  his  eyes  fell 
on  the  passage  which  tells  how  "one  shall  be 
taken  and  another  left,"  great  honest  tears  of 


Once  in  a  Way  299 

gratitude  dropped  upon  the  page ;  and  he  fell  on 
his  knees,  and  in  bitter  self-reproach  thanked  the 
new  found  Upper  Powers,  who,  as  he  began  to 
hope,  were  leading  him  not  in  vain,  —  that  he  had 
yet  a  life  before  him  wherein  to  play  the  man. 

And  now  he  felt  that  the  last  link  was  broken 
between  him  and  all  his  late  frivolous  com- 
panions. All  had  deserted  him  in  his  ruin  but 
this  one  —  and  he  was  silent  in  the  grave.  And 
now,  from  the  world  and  all  its  toys  and  revelry, 
he  was  parted  once  and  forever;  and  he  stood 
alone  in  the  desert,  like  the  last  Arab  of  a 
plague-stricken  tribe,  looking  over  the  wreck  of 
ancient  cities,  across  barren  sands  where  far 
rivers  gleamed  in  the  distance,  that  seemed  to 
beckon  him  away  into  other  climes,  other  hopes, 
other  duties.  Old  things  had  passed  away  — 
when  would  all  things  become  new? 

Not  yet,  Lancelot.  Thou  hast  still  one  selfish 
hope,  one  dream  of  bliss,  however  impossible,  yet 
still  cherished.  Thou  art  a  changed  man  —  but 
for  whose  sake?  For  Argemone's.  Is  she  to  be 
thy  god,  then  ?  Art  thou  to  live  for  her,  or  for 
the  sake  of  One  greater  than  she?  All  thine 
idols  are  broken  —  swiftly  the  desert  sands  are 
drifting  over  them,  and  covering  them  in.  —  All 
but  one  —  must  that,  too,  be  taken  from  thee  ? 

One  morning  a  letter  was  put  into  Lancelot's 
hands,  bearing  the  Whitford  postmark.  Trem- 
blingly he  tore  it  open.  It  contained  a  few  pas- 
sionate words  from  Honoria.  Argemone  was 
dying  of  typhus  fever,  and  entreating  to  see  him 
once  again;  and  Honoria  had,  with  some  diffi- 
culty, as  she  hinted,  obtained  leave  from  her 
parents  to  send  for  him.  His  last  bank  note 


300  Yeast 

carried  him  down  to  Whitford;  and,  calm  and 
determined,  as  one  who  feels  that  he  has  nothing 
more  to  lose  on  earth,  and  whose  torment  must 
henceforth  become  his  element,  he  entered  the 
Priory  that  evening. 

He  hardly  spoke  or  looked  at  a  soul;  he  felt 
that  he  was  there  on  an  errand  which  none  under- 
stood; that  he  was  moving  towards  Argemone 
through  a  spiritual  world,  in  which  he  and  she 
were  alone;  that  in  his  utter  poverty  and  hope- 
lessness he  stood  above  all  the  luxury,  even  above 
all  the  sorrow,  around  him ;  that  she  belonged  to 
him,  and  to  him  alone;  and  the  broken-hearted 
beggar  followed  the  weeping  Honoria  towards  his 
lady's  chamber,  with  the  step  and  bearing  of  a 
lord.  He  was  wrong;  there  were  pride  and 
fierceness  enough  in  his  heart,  mingled  with  that 
sense  of  nothingness  of  rank,  money,  chance  and 
change,  yea,  death  itself,  of  all  but  Love;  — 
mingled  even  with  that  intense  belief  that  his 
sorrows  were  but  his  just  deserts,  which  now 
possessed  all  his  soul.  And  in  after  years  he 
knew  that  he  was  wrong;  but  so  he  felt  at  the 
time ;  and  even  then  the  strength  was  not  all  of 
earth  which  bore  him  manlike  through  that 
hour. 

He  entered  the  room ;  the  darkness,  the  silence, 
the  cool  scent  of  vinegar,  struck  a  shudder 
through  him.  The  squire  was  sitting  half  idiotic 
and  helpless,  in  his  arm-chair.  His  face  lighted 
up  as  Lancelot  entered,  and  he  tried  to  hold  out 
his  palsied  hand.  Lancelot  did  not  see  him. 
Mrs.  Lavington  moved  proudly  and  primly  back 
from  the  bed,  with  a  face  that  seemed  to  say 
through  its  tears,  "  I  at  least  am  responsible  for 


Once  in  a  Way  301 

nothing  that  occurs  from  this  interview. "  Lance- 
lot did  not  see  her,  either :  he  walked  straight  up 
towards  the  bed  as  if  he  were  treading  on  his  own 
ground.  His  heart  was  between  his  lips,  and  yet 
his  whole  soul  felt  as  dry  and  hard  as  some  burnt- 
out  volcano-crater. 

A  faint  voice  —  oh,  how  faint,  how  changed! 
—  called  him  from  within  the  closed  curtains. 

"He  is  there!  I  know  it  is  he!  Lancelot! 
my  Lancelot!" 

Silently  still  he  drew  aside  the  curtain;  the 
light  fell  full  upon  her  face.  What  a  sight! 
Her  beautiful  hair  cut  close,  a  ghastly  white 
handkerchief  round  her  head,  those  bright  eyes 
sunk  and  lustreless,  those  ripe  lips  baked  and 
black  and  drawn ;  her  thin  hand  fingering  uneasily 
the  coverlid.  —  It  was  too  much  for  him.  He 
shuddered  and  turned  his  face  away.  Quick- 
sighted  that  love  is,  even  to  the  last!  slight  as 
the  gesture  was,  she  saw  it  in  an  instant. 

"  You  are  not  afraid  of  infection  ? "  she  said 
faintly.  "I  was  not." 

Lancelot  laughed  aloud,  as  men  will  at  strangest 
moments,  sprung  towards  her  with  open  arms, 
and  threw  himself  on  his  knees  beside  the  bed. 
With  sudden  strength  she  rose  upright,  and 
clasped  him  in  her  arms. 

"Once  more!"  she  sighed,  in  a  whisper  to 
herself,  "  Once  more  on  earth  ! "  And  the  room, 
and  the  spectators,  and  disease  itself  faded  from 
around  them  like  vain  dreams,  as  she  nestled 
closer  and  closer  to  him,  and  gazed  into  his  eyes, 
and  passed  her  shrunken  hand  over  his  cheeks, 
and  toyed  with  his  hair,  and  seemed  to  drink  in 
magnetic  life  from  his  embrace. 


302  Yeast 

No  one  spoke  or  stirred.  They  felt  that  an 
awful  and  blessed  spirit  overshadowed  the  lovers, 
and  were  hushed,  as  if  in  the  sanctuary  of  God. 

Suddenly  again  she  raised  her  head  from  his 
bosom,  and  in  a  tone  in  which  her  old  queenliness 
mingled  strangely  with  the  saddest  tenderness : 

"All  of  you  go  away  now;  I  must  talk  to  my 
husband  alone." 

They  went,  leading  out  the  squire,  who  cast 
puzzled  glances  toward  the  pair,  and  murmured 
to  himself  that  "she  was  sure  to  get  well  now 
Smith  was  come :  everything  went  right  when  he 
was  in  the  way." 

So  they  were  left  alone. 

"  I  do  not  look  so  very  ugly,  my  darling,  do  I  ? 
Not  so  very  ugly?  though  they  have  cut  off  all 
my  poor  hair,  and  I  told  them  so  often  not !  But 
I  kept  a  lock  for  you ;  "  and  feebly  she  drew  from 
under  the  pillow  a  long  auburn  tress,  and  tried 
to  wreathe  it  round  his  neck,  but  could  not,  and 
sunk  back. 

Poor  fellow!  he  could  bear  no  more.  He  hid 
his  face  in  his  hands,  and  burst  into  a  long  low 
weeping. 

"I   am   very  thirsty,    darling;    reach   me 

No,  I  will  drink  no  more,  except  from  your  dear 
lips." 

He  lifted  up  his  head,  and  breathed  his  whole 
soul  upon  her  lips;  his  tears  fell  on  her  closed 
eyelids. 

"  Weeping  ?  No.  —  You  must  not  cry.  See 
how  comfortable  I  am.  They  are  all  so  kind  — 
soft  bed,  cool  room,  fresh  air,  sweet  drinks,  sweet 
scents.  Oh,  so  different  from  that  room!" 

"  What  room  ?  —  my  own ! " 


Once  in  a  Way  303 

"Listen,  and  I  will  tell  you.  Sit  down  —  put 
your  arm  under  my  head  —  so.  When  I  am  on 
your  bosom  I  feel  so  strong.  God!  let  me  last 
to  tell  him  all.  It  was  for  that  I  sent  for  him." 

And  then,  in  broken  words,  she  told  him  how 
she  had  gone  up  to  the  fever  patient  at  Ashy,  on 
the  fatal  night  on  which  Lancelot  had  last  seen 
her.  Shuddering,  she  hinted  at  the  horrible  filth 
and  misery  she  had  seen,  at  the  foul  scents  which 
had  sickened  her.  A  madness  of  remorse,  she 
said,  had  seized  her.  She  had  gone,  in  spite  of 
her  disgust,  to  several  houses  which  she  found 
open.  There  were  worse  cottages  there  than 
even  her  father's;  some  tradesmen  in  a  neighbor- 
ing town  had  been  allowed  to  run  up  a  set  of  rack 
rent  hovels.  —  Another  shudder  seized  her  when 
she  spoke  of  them;  and  from  that  point  in  her 
story  all  was  fitful,  broken,  like  the  images  of  a 
hideous  dream.  "  Every  instant  those  foul  mem- 
ories were  defiling  her  nostrils.  A  horrible 
loathing  had  taken  possession  of  her,  recurring 
from  time  to  time,  till  it  ended  in  delirium  and 
fever.  A  scent-fiend  was  haunting  her  night  and 
day,"  she  said.  "And  now  the  curse  of  the 
Lavingtons  had  truly  come  upon  her.  To  perish 
by  the  people  whom  they  made.  Their  neglect, 
cupidity,  oppression,  are  avenged  on  me!  Why 
not?  Have  I  not  wantoned  in  down  and  per- 
fumes, while  they,  by  whose  labor  my  luxuries 
were  bought,  were  pining  among  scents  and 
sounds,  one  day  of  which  would  have  driven  me 
mad!  And  then  they  wonder  why  men  turn 
Chartists!  There  are  those  horrible  scents 
again !  Save  me  from  them !  Lancelot  —  darling ! 
Take  me  to  the  fresh  air !  I  choke !  I  am  fester- 


304  Yeast 

ing  away !  The  Nun-pool !  Take  all  the  water, 
every  drop,  and  wash  Ashy  clean  again!  Make 
a  great  fountain  in  it  —  beautiful  marble  —  to 
bubble  and  gurgle,  and  trickle  and  foam,  for  ever 
and  ever,  and  wash  away  the  sins  of  the  Laving- 
tons,  that  the  little  rosy  children  may  play  round 
it,  and  the  poor  toil-bent  woman  may  wash  —  and 

wash  —  and  drink Water !  water !  I  am  dying 

of  thirst." 

He  gave  her  water,  and  then  she  lay  back  and 
babbled  about  the  Nun-pool  sweeping  "all  the 
houses  of  Ashy  into  one  beautiful  palace,  among 
great  flower-gardens,  where  the  school  children 
will  sit  and  sing  such  merry  hymns,  and  never 
struggle  with  great  pails  of  water  up  the  hill  of 
Ashy  any  more." 

"You  will  do  it!  darling!  Strong,  wise, 
noble-hearted  that  you  are  !  Why  do  you  look  at 
me?  You  will  be  rich  some  day.  You  will  own 
land,  for  you  are  worthy  to  own  it.  Oh  that  I 
could  give  you  Whitford !  No !  It  was  mine 

too  long  —  therefore  I  die !  because  I Lord 

Jesus!  have  I  not  repented  of  my  sin?" 

Then  she  grew  calm  once  more.  A  soft  smile 
crept  over  her  face,  as  it  grew  sharper  and  paler 
every  moment.  Faintly  she  sank  back  on  the 
pillows,  and  faintly  whispered  to  him  to  kneel 
and  pray.  He  obeyed  her  mechanically.  .  .  . 
"  No  —  not  for  me,  for  them  —  for  them,  and  for 
yourself  —  that  yon  may  save  them  whom  I  never 
dreamt  that  I  was  bound  to  save." 

And  he  knelt  and  prayed  .  .  .  what,  he  alone 
and  those  who  heard  his  prayer,  can  tell.  .  .  . 


Once  in  a  Way  305 

When  he  lifted  up  his  head  at  last,  he  saw  that 
Argemone  lay  motionless.  For  a  moment  he 
thought  she  was  dead,  and  frantically  sprang  to 
the  bell.  The  family  rushed  in  with  the  physi- 
cian. She  gave  some  faint  token  of  life,  but  none 
of  consciousness.  The  doctor  sighed,  and  said 
that  her  end  was  near.  Lancelot  had  known  that 
all  along. 

"I  think,  sir,  you  had  better  leave  the  room," 
said  Mrs.  Lavington;  and  followed  him  into  the 
passage. 

What  she  was  about  to  say  remained  unspoken ; 
for  Lancelot  seized  her  hand  in  spite  of  her,  with 
frantic  thanks  for  having  allowed  him  this  one 
interview,  and  entreaties  that  he  might  see  her 
again,  if  but  for  one  moment. 

Mrs.  Lavington,  somewhat  more  softly  than 
usual,  said,  "That  the  result  of  this  visit  had 
not  been  such  as  to  make  a  second  desirable  — 
that  she  had  no  wish  to  disturb  her  daughter's 
mind  at  such  a  moment  with  earthly  regrets." 

"  Earthly  regrets !  "  How  little  she  knew  what 
had  passed  there !  But  if  she  had  known,  would 
she  have  been  one  whit  softened  ?  For,  indeed, 
Argemone' s  spirituality  was  not  in  her  mother's 
language.  And  yet  the  good  woman  had  prayed, 
and  prayed,  and  wept  bitter  tears,  by  her  daughter's 
bedside,  day  after  day;  but  she  had  never  heard 
her  pronounce  the  talisman ic  formula  of  words, 
necessary  in  her  eyes  to  ensure  salvation;  and 
so  she  was  almost  without  hope  for  her.  Oh, 
Bigotry!  Devil,  who  turnest  God's  love  into 
man's  curse!  are  not  human  hearts  hard  and 
blind  enough  of  themselves,  without  thy  cursed 
help? 


306  Yeast 

For  one  moment  a  storm  of  unutterable  pride 
and  rage  convulsed  Lancelot  —  the  next  instant 
love  conquered;  and  the  strong  proud  man  threw 
himself  on  his  knees  at  the  feet  of  the  woman  he 
despised,  and  with  wild  sobs  entreated  for  one 
moment  more  —  one  only! 

At  that  instant  a  shriek  from  Honor ia  resounded 
from  the  sick-chamber.  Lancelot  knew  what  it 
meant,  and  sprang  up,  as  men  do  when  shot 
through  the  heart  —  In  a  moment  he  was  himself 
again.  A  new  life  had  begun  for  him  —  alone. 

"You  will  not  need  to  grant  my  prayer, 
madam,"  he  said  calmly:  "  Argemone  is  dead." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH 

LET  us  pass  over  the  period  of  dull,  stupefied 
misery  that  followed,  when  Lancelot  had 
returned  to  his  lonely  lodging,  and  the  excitement 
of  his  feelings  had  died  away.  It  is  impossible  to 
describe  that  which  could  not  be  separated  into 
parts,  in  which  there  was  no  foreground,  no  dis- 
tance, but  only  one  dead,  black,  colorless  present. 
After  a  time,  however,  he  began  to  find  that 
fancies,  almost  ridiculously  trivial,  arrested  and 
absorbed  his  attention;  even  as  when  our  eyes 
have  become  accustomed  to  darkness,  every  light- 
colored  mote  shows  luminous  against  the  void 
blackness  of  night.  So  we  are  tempted  to  un- 
seemly frivolity  in  churches,  and  at  funerals,  and 
all  most  solemn  moments ;  and  so  Lancelot  found 
his  imagination  fluttering  back,  half  amused,  to 
every  smallest  circumstance  of  the  last  few  weeks, 
as  objects  of  mere  curiosity,  and  found  with 
astonishment  that  they  had  lost  their  power  of 
paining  him.  Just  as  victims  on  the  rack  have 
fallen,  it  is  said,  by  length  of  torture,  into  insensi- 
bility, and  even  calm  repose,  his  brain  had  been 
wrought  until  all  feeling  was  benumbed.  He 
began  to  think  what  an  interesting  autobiography 
his  life  might  make ;  and  the  events  of  the  last  few 
years  began  to  arrange  themselves  in  a  most 


308  Yeast 

attractive  dramatic  form.  He  began  even  to  work 
out  a  scene  or  two,  and  where  "  motives"  seemed 
wanting,  to  invent  them  here  and  there.  He  sat 
thus  for  hours  silent  over  his  fire,  playing  with  his 
old  self,  as  though  it  were  a  thing  which  did  not 
belong  to  him  —  a  suit  of  clothes  which  he  had 
put  off,  and  which, 

"  For  that  it  was  too  rich  to  hang  by  the  wall, 
It  must  be  ripped," 

and  then  pieced  and  dizened  out  afresh  as  a 
toy.  And  then  again  he  started  away  from  his 
own  thoughts,  at  finding  himself  on  the  edge  of  that 
very  gulf,  which,  as  Mellot  had  lately  told  him, 
Barnakill  denounced  as  the  true  hell  of  genius, 
where  Art  is  regarded  as  an  end  and  not  a  means, 
and  objects  are  interesting,  not  in  as  far  as  they 
form  our  spirits,  but  in  proportion  as  they  can  be 
shaped  into  effective  parts  of  some  beautiful  whole. 
But  whether  it  was  a  temptation  or  none,  the  desire 
recurred  to  him  again  and  again.  He  even  at- 
tempted to  write,  but  sickened  at  the  sight  of  the 
first  words.  He  turned  to  his  pencil,  and  tried  to 
represent  with  it  one  scene  at  least;  and  with  the 
horrible  calmness  of  some  self-torturing  ascetic,  he 
sat  down  to  sketch  a  drawing  of  himself  and 
Argemone  on  her  dying  day,  with  her  head  upon 
his  bosom  for  the  last  time  —  and  then  tossed  it 
angrily  into  the  fire,  partly  because  he  felt  just  as 
he  had  in  his  attempts  to  write,  that  there  was 
something  more  in  all  these  events  than  he  could 
utter  by  pen  or  pencil,  than  he  could  even  under- 
stand; principally  because  he  could  not  arrange 
the  attitudes  gracefully  enough.  And  now,  in 
front  of  the  stern  realities  of  sorrow  and  death,  he 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death    309 

began  to  see  a  meaning  in  another  mysterious 
saying  of  Barnakill's,  which  Mellot  was  continu- 
ally quoting,  that  "  Art  was  never  Art  till  it  was 
more  than  Art ;  that  the  Finite  only  existed  as  a 
body  of  the  Infinite ;  and  that  the  man  of  genius 
must  first  know  the  Infinite,  unless  he  wished  to 
become  not  a  poet,  but  a  maker  of  idols."  Still 
he  felt  in  himself  a  capability,  nay,  an  infinite 
longing  to  speak ;  though  what  he  should  utter,  or 
how, — whether  as  poet,  social  theorist,  preacher, 
he  could  not  yet  decide.  Barnakill  had  forbidden 
him  painting,  and  though  he  hardly  knew  why,  he 
dared  not  disobey  him.  But  Argemone's  dying 
words  lay  on  him  as  a  divine  command  to  labor. 
All  his  doubts,  his  social  observations,  his  dreams 
of  the  beautiful  and  the  blissful,  his  intense  percep- 
tion of  social  evils,  his  new-born  hope  —  faith  it 
could  not  yet  be  called  —  in  a  ruler  and  deliverer 
of  the  world,  all  urged  him  on  to  labor:  but  at 
what?  He  felt  as  if  he  were  the  demon  in  the 
legend,  condemned  to  twine  endless  ropes  of 
sand.  The  world,  outside  which  he  now  stood  for 
good  and  evil,  seemed  to  him  like  some  frantic 
whirling  waltz;  'some  serried  struggling  crowd, 
which  rushed  past  him  in  aimless  confusion,  with- 
out allowing  him  time  or  opening  to  take  his  place 
among  their  ranks :  and  as  for  wings  to  rise  above, 
and  to  look  down  upon  the  uproar,  where  were 
they?  His  melancholy  paralyzed  him  more  and 
more.  He  was  too  listless  even  to  cater  for 
his  daily  bread  by  writing  his  articles  for  the 
magazines.  Why  should  he?  He  had  nothing 
to  say.  Why  should  he  pour  out  words  and 
empty  sound,  and  add  one  more  futility  to  the 
herd  of  "prophets  that  had  become  wind,  and 


310  Yeast 


had  no  truth  in  them  "  ?  Those  who  could  write 
without  a  conscience,  without  an  object  except 
that  of  seeing  their  own  fine  words,  and  filling 
their  own  pockets  —  let  them  do  it :  for  his  part 
he  would  have  none  of  it.  But  his  purse  was 
empty,  and  so  was  his  stomach ;  and  as  for  asking 
assistance  of  his  uncle,  it  was  returning  like  the  dog 
to  his  vomit.  So  one  day  he  settled  all  bills  with 
his  last  shilling,  tied  up  his  remaining  clothes  in  a 
bundle,  and  stoutly  stepped  forth  into  the  street 
to  find  a  job  —  to  hold  a  horse  if  nothing  better 
offered ;  when,  behold !  on  the  threshold  he  met 
Barnakill  himself. 

"Whither  away?"  said  that  strange  personage. 
"  I  was  just  going  to  call  on  you." 

"  To  earn  my  bread  by  the  labor  of  my  hands. 
So  our  fathers  all  began." 

"And  so  their  sons  must  all  end.  Do  you  want 
work?" 

"  Yes,  if  you  have  any." 

"  Follow  me,  and  carry  a  trunk  home  from  a 
shop  to  my  lodgings." 

He  strode  off,  with  Lancelot  after  him ;  entered 
a  mathematical  instrument  makeVs  shop  in  the 
neighboring  street,  and  pointed  out  a  heavy  corded 
case  to  Lancelot,  who,  with  the  assistance  of  the 
shopman,  got  it  on  his  shoulders;  and  trudging 
forth  through  the  streets  after  his  employer,  who 
walked  before  him  silent  and  unregarding,  felt  him- 
self for  the  first  time  in  his  life  in  the  same  situa- 
tion as  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  out  of  every 
thousand  of  Adam's  descendants,  and  discovered 
somewhat  to  his  satisfaction  that  when  he  could 
once  rid  his  mind  of  its  old  superstition  that  every 
one  was  looking  at  him,  it  mattered  very  little 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death    3 1 1 

whether  the  burden  carried  were  a  deal  trunk  or  a 
Downing  Street  despatch-box. 

His  employer's  lodgings  were  in  St.  Paul's 
Churchyard.  Lancelot  set  the  trunk  down  inside 
the  door. 

"What  do  you  charge?" 

"  Sixpence." 

Barnakill  looked  him  steadily  in  the  face, 
gave  him  the  sixpence,  went  in,  and  shut  the 
door. 

Lancelot  wandered  down  the  street,  half  amused 
at  the  simple  test  which  had  just  been  applied  to 
him,  and  yet  sickened  with  disappointment;  for 
he  had  cherished  a  mysterious  fancy  that  with  this 
strange  being  all  his  hopes  of  future  activity  were 
bound  up.  Tregarva's  month  was  nearly  over, 
and  yet  no  tidings  of  him  had  come.  Mellot  had 
left  London  on  some  mysterious  errand  of  the 
prophet's,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
seemed  to  stand  utterly  alone.  He  was  at  one 
pole,  and  the  whole  universe  at  the  other.  It  was 
in  vain  to  tell  himself  that  his  own  act  had  placed 
him  there ;  that  he  had  friends  to  whom  he  migbt 
appeal.  He  would  not,  he  dare  not,  accept  out- 
ward help,  even  outward  friendship,  however 
hearty  and  sincere,  at  that  crisis  of  his  existence. 
It  seemed  a  desecration  of  its  awfulness  to  find 
comfort  in  anything  but  the  highest  and  the 
deepest.  And  the  glimpse  of  that  which  he  had 
attained  seemed  to  have  passed  away  from  him 
again,  —  seemed  to  be  something  which,  as  it  had 
arisen  with  Argemone,  was  lost  with  her  also,  — 
one  speck  of  the  far  blue  sky  which  the  rolling 
clouds  had  covered  in  again.  As  he  passed  under 
the  shadow  of  the  huge  soot-blackened  cathedral) 


3 1 2  Yeast 

and  looked  at  its  grim  spiked  railings  and  closed 
doors,  it  seemed  to  him  a  symbol  of  the  spiritual 
world,  clouded  and  barred  from  him.  He  stopped 
and  looked  up,  and  tried  to  think.  The  rays  of 
the  setting  sun  lighted  up  in  clear  radiance  the 
huge  cross  on  the  summit.  Was  it  an  omen? 
Lancelot  thought  so ;  but  at  that  instant  he  felt  a 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  looked  round.  It  was 
that  strange  man  again. 

"So  far  well,"  said  he.  "You  are  making  a 
better  day's  work  than  you  fancy,  and  earning 
more  wages.  For  instance,  here  is  a  packet  for 
you." 

Lancelot  seized  it,  trembling,  and  tore  it  open. 
It  was  directed  in  Honoria's  handwriting. 

"  Whence  had  you  this  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Through  Mellot,  through  whom  I  can  return 
your  answer,  if  one  be  needed." 

The  letter  was  significant  of  Honoria's  character. 
It  busied  itself  entirely  about  facts,  and  showed  the 
depth  of  her  sorrow  by  making  no  allusion  to  it. 
"  Argemone,  as  Lancelot  was  probably  aware,  had 
bequeathed  to  him  the  whole  of  her  own  fortune  at 
Mrs.  Lavington's  death,  and  had  directed  that 
various  precious  things  of  hers  should  be  delivered 
over  to  him  immediately.  Her  mother,  however, 
kept  her  chamber  under  lock  and  key,  and  refused 
to  allow  an  article  to  be  removed  from  its  accus- 
tomed place.  It  was  natural,  in  the  first  burst  of 
her  sorrow,  and  Lancelot  would  pardon."  All  his 
drawings  and  letters  had  been,  by  Argemone's 
desire,  placed  with  her  in  her  coffin.  Honoria  had 
been  only  able  to  obey  her  in  sending  a  favorite 
ring  of  hers,  and  with  it  the  last  stanzas  which  she 
had  composed  before  her  death: 


"Twin  stars,  aloft  in  ether  clear, 
Around  each  other  roll  away, 
Within  one  common  atmosphere 
Of  their  own  mutual  light  and  day. 

44  And  myriad  happy  eyes  are  bent 

Upon  their  changeless  love  alway; 
As,  strengthened  by  their  one  intent, 
They  pour  the  flood  of  life  and  day, 

*  So  we,  through  this  world's  waning  night, 

Shall,  hand  in  hand,  pursue  our  way ; 
Shed  round  us  order,  love,  and  light, 
And  shine  unto  the  perfect  day." 

The  precious  relic,  with  all  its  shattered  hopes, 
came  at  the  right  moment  to  soften  his  hard-worn 
heart.  The  sight,  the  touch  of  it,  shot  like  an 
electric  spark  through  the  black  stifling  thunder- 
cloud of  his  soul,  and  dissolved  it  in  refreshing 
showers  of  tears. 

Barnakill  led  him  gently  within  the  area  of  the 
railings,  where  he  might  conceal  his  emotion,  and 
it  was  but  a  few  seconds  before  Lancelot  had 
recovered  his  self-possession  and  followed  him  up 
the  steps  through  the  wicket  door. 

They  entered.  The  afternoon  service  was  pro- 
ceeding. The  organ  droned  sadly  in  its  iron  cage 
to  a  few  musical  amateurs.  Some  nursery  maids 
and  foreign  sailors  stared  about  within  the  spiked 
felon's  dock  which  shut  off  the  body  of  the  cathe- 
dral, and  tried  in  vain  to  hear  what  was  going  on 
inside  the  choir.  As  a  wise  author  —  a  Protestant, 
too  —  has  lately  said,  "  the  scanty  service  rattled  in 
the  vast  building,  like  a  dried  kernel  too  small  for 
its  shell."  The  place  breathed  imbecility,  and  un- 
reality, and  sleepy  life-in-death,  while  the  whole 
nineteenth  century  went  roaring  on  its  way  outside. 


314  Yeast 

And  as  Lancelot  thought,  though  only  as  a  dilet- 
tante, of  old  St.  Paul's,  the  morning  star  and  focal 
beacon  of  England  through  centuries  and  dynas- 
ties, from  old  Augustine  and  Mellitus,  up  to 
those  Paul's  Cross  sermons  whose  thunders  shook 
thrones,  and  to  noble  Wren's  masterpiece  of  art,  he 
asked,  "  Whither  all  this?  Coleridge's  dictum,  that 
a  cathedral  is  a  petrified  religion,  may  be  taken  to 
bear  more  meanings  than  one.  When  will  life  re- 
turn to  this  cathedral  system  ?  " 

"  When  was  it  ever  a  living  system?  "  answered 
the  other.  "  When  was  it  ever  anything  but  a 
transitionary  makeshift  since  the  dissolution  of  the 
monasteries  ?  " 

"  Why,  then,  not  away  with  it  at  once  ?  " 

"  You  English  have  not  done  with  it  yet.  At  all 
events,  it  is  keeping  your  cathedrals  rain-proof  for 
you,  till  you  can  put  them  to  some  better  use  than 
now." 

"And  in  the  meantime?" 

"  In  the  meantime  there  is  life  enough  in  them ; 
life  that  will  wake  the  dead  some  day.  Do  you 
hear  what  those  choristers  are  chanting  now  ?  " 

"Not  I,"  said  Lancelot;  "nor  any  one  round 
us,  I  should  think." 

"  That  is  our  own  fault,  after  all ;  for  we  were 
not  good  churchmen  enough  to  come  in  time  for 
vespers. " 

"  Are  you  a  churchman  then  ?  " 

"Yes,  thank  God.  There  may  be  other 
churches  than  those  of  Europe  or  Syria,  and 
right  Catholic  ones,  too.  But,  shall  I  tell  you 
what  they  are  singing?  '  He  hath  put  down  the 
mighty  from  their  seat,  and  hath  exalted  the 
humble  and  meek.  He  hath  filled  the  hungry 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death    3 1 5 

with  good  things,  and  the  rich  He  hath  sent 
empty  away.'  Is  there  no  life,  think  you,  in 
those  words,  spoken  here  every  afternoon  in  the 
name  of  God  ?  " 

"By  hirelings,  who  neither  care  nor  under- 
stand   " 

"  Hush.  Be  not  hasty  with  imputations  of 
evil,  within  walls  dedicated  to  and  preserved  by 
the  All-good.  Even  should  the  speakers  forget 
the  meaning  of  their  own  words,  to  my  sense, 
perhaps,  that  may  just  now  leave  the  words  more 
entirely  God's.  At  all  events,  confess  that  what- 
ever accidental  husks  may  have  clustered  round 
it,  here  is  a  germ  of  Eternal  Truth.  No,  I  dare 
not  despair  of  you  English,  as  long  as  I  hear 
your  priesthood  forced  by  Providence,  even  in 
spite  of  themselves,  thus  to  speak  God's  words 
about  an  age  in  which  the  condition  of  the  poor, 
and  the  rights  and  duties  of  man,  are  becom- 
ing the  rally  ing-point  for  all  thought  and  all 
organization. " 

"  But  does  it  not  make  the  case  more  hopeless 
that  such  words  have  been  spoken  for  centuries, 
and  no  man  regards  them  ?  " 

"  You  have  to  blame  for  that  the  people,  rather 
than  the  priest.  As  they  are,  so  will  he  be,  in 
every  age  and  country.  He  is  but  the  index 
which  the  changes  of  their  spiritual  state  move 
up  and  down  the  scale :  and  as  they  will  become 
in  England  in  the  next  half  century,  so  will  he 
become  also. " 

"And  can  these  dry  bones  live?"  asked  Lan- 
celot, scornfully. 

"  Who  are  you  to  ask  ?  What  were  you  three 
months  ago  ?  for  I  know  well  your  story.  But  do 


3 1 6  Yeast 

you  remember  what  the  prophet  saw  in  the 
Valley  of  Vision?  How  first  that  those  same 
dry  bones  shook  and  clashed  together,  as  if  uneasy 
because  they  were  disorganized;  and  how  they 
then  found  flesh  and  stood  upright :  and  yet  there 
was  no  life  in  them,  till  at  last  the  Spirit  came 
dow>n  and  entered  into  them?  Surely  there  is 
shaking  enough  among  the  bones  now!  It  is 
happening  to  the  body  of  your  England  as  it  did 
to  Adam's  after  he  was  made.  It  lay  on  earth, 
the  rabbis  say,  forty  days  before  the  breath  of 
life  was  put  into  it,  and  the  devil  came  and 
kicked  it;  and  it  sounded  hollow,  as  England  is 
doing  now;  but  that  did  not  prevent  the  breath 
of  life  coming  in  good  time,  nor  will  it  in 
England's  case." 

Lancelot  looked  at  him  with  a  puzzled  face. 

"  You  must  not  speak  in  such  deep  parables  to 
so  young  a  learner. " 

"  Is  my  parable  so  hard,  then  ?  Look  around 
you  and  see  what  is  the  characteristic  of  your 
country  and  of  your  generation  at  this  moment. 
What  a  yearning,  what  an  expectation,  amid 
infinite  falsehoods  and  confusions,  of  some  nobler, 
more  chivalrous,  more  godlike  state !  Your  very 
costermonger  trolls  out  his  belief  that  '  there  's  a 
good  time  coming,'  and  the  hearts  of  gamins,  as 
well  as  millenarians,  answer,  '  True !  '  Is  not 
that  a  clashing  among  the  dry  bones?  And  as 
for  flesh,  what  new  materials  are  springing  up 
among  you  every  month,  spiritual  and  physical, 
for  a  state  such  as  '  eye  hath  not  seen  nor  ear 
heard'  ?  —  railroads,  electric  telegraphs,  associate- 
lodging-houses,  club-houses,  sanitary  reforms, 
experimental  schools,  chemical  agriculture,  a 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death    317 

matchless  school  of  inductive  science,  an  equally 
matchless  school  of  naturalist  painters,  — and  all 
this  in  the  very  workshop  of  the  world !  Look, 
again,  at  the  healthy  craving  after  religious  art 
and  ceremonial,  —  the  strong  desire  to  preserve 
that  which  has  stood  the  test  of  time;  and  on 
the  other  hand,  at  the  manful  resolution  of  your 
middle  classes  to  stand  or  fall  by  the  Bible  alone, 
—  to  admit  no  innovations  in  worship  which  are 
empty  of  instinctive  meaning.  Look  at  the 
enormous  amount  of  practical  benevolence  which 
now  struggles  in  vain  against  evil,  only  because 
it  is  as  yet  private,  desultory,  divided.  How 
dare  you,  young  man,  despair  of  your  own  nation, 
while  its  nobles  can  produce  a  Carlisle,  an 
Ellesmere,  an  Ashley,  a  Robert  Grosvenor,  — 
while  its  middle  classes  can  beget  a  Faraday,  a 
Stephenson,  a  Brooke,  an  Elizabeth  Fry?  See, 
I  say,  what  a  chaos  of  noble  materials  is  here,  — 
all  confused,  it  is  true,  —  polarized,  jarring,  and 
chaotic, — here  bigotry,  there  self-will,  supersti- 
tion, sheer  atheism  often,  but  only  waiting  for 
the  one  inspiring  Spirit  to  organize,  and  unite, 
and  consecrate  this  chaos  into  the  noblest  polity 
the  world  ever  saw  realized !  What  a  destiny 
may  be  that  of  your  land,  if  you  have  but  the 
faith  to  see  your  own  honor !  Were  I  not  of  my 
own  country,  I  would  be  an  Englishman  this 
day." 

"  And  what  is  your  country  ? "  asked  Lancelot. 
"It  should  be  a  noble  one  which  breeds  such 
men  as  you." 

The  stranger  smiled. 

"Will  you  go  thither  with  me? " 

"  Why  not  ?     I  long  for  travel,  and  truly  I  am 


3i  8  Yeast 

sick  of  my  own  country.  When  the  Spirit  of 
which  you  speak,"  he  went  on,  bitterly,  "shall 
descend,  I  may  return;  till  then  England  is  no 
place  for  the  penniless." 

"How  know  you  that  the  Spirit  is  not  even 
now  poured  out?  Must  your  English  Pharisees 
and  Sadducees,  too,  have  signs  and  wonders  ere 
they  believe  ?  Will  man  never  know  that  '  the 
kingdom  of  God  comes  not  by  observation  '  ?  that 
now,  as  ever,  His  promise  stands  true,  — '  Lo!  I 
am  with  you  alway,  even  unto  the  end  of  the 
world '  ?  How  many  inspired  hearts  even  now 
may  be  cherishing  in  secret  the  idea  which  shall 
reform  the  age,  and  fulfil  at  once  the  longings  of 
every  sect  and  rank  ?  " 

"  Name  it  to  me,  then ! " 

"Who  can  name  it?  Who  can  even  see  it, 
but  those  who  are  like  Him  from  whom  it  comes? 
Them  a  long  and  stern  discipline  awaits.  Would 
you  be  of  them,  you  must,  like  the  Highest  who 
ever  trod  this  earth,  go  fasting  into  the  wilder- 
ness, and,  among  the  wild  beasts,  stand  alone 
face  to  face  with  the  powers  of  Nature." 

"  I  will  go  where  you  shall  bid  me.  I  will 
turn  shepherd  among  the  Scottish  mountains  — 
live  as  an  anchorite  in  the  solitudes  of  Dartmoor. 
But  to  what  purpose?  I  have  listened  long  to 
Nature's  voice,  but  even  the  whispers  of  a  spirit- 
ual presence  which  haunted  my  childhood  have 
died  away,  and  I  hear  nothing  in  her  but  the  grind- 
ing of  the  iron  wheels  of  mechanical  necessity." 

"Which  is  the  will  of  God.  Henceforth  you 
shall  study,  not  Nature,  but  Him.  Yet  as  for 
place  —  I  do  not  like  your  English  primitive 
formations,  where  earth,  worn  out  with  strug- 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death    3 1 9 

gling,  has  fallen  wearily  asleep.  No,  you  shall 
rather  come  to  Asia,  the  oldest  and  yet  the 
youngest  continent,  — to  our  volcanic  mountain 
ranges,  where  her  bosom  still  heaves  with  the 
creative  energy  of  youth,  around  the  primeval 
cradle  of  the  most  ancient  race  of  men.  Then, 
when  you  have  learnt  the  wondrous  harmony 
between  man  and  his  dwelling-place,  I  will  lead 
you  to  a  land  where  you  shall  see  the  highest 
spiritual  cultivation  in  triumphant  contact  with 
the  fiercest  energies  of  matter;  where  men  have 
learnt  to  tame  and  use  alike  the  volcano  and  the 
human  heart,  where  the  body  and  the  spirit,  the 
beautiful  and  the  useful,  the  human  and  the  divine, 
are  no  longer  separate,  and  men  have  embodied 
to  themselves  on  earth  an  image  of  the  '  city  not 
made  with  hands,  eternal  in  the  heavens. ' ' 

"  Where  is  this  land  ? "  said  Lancelot,  eagerly. 

"Poor  human  nature  must  have  its  name  for 
everything.  You  have  heard  of  the  country  of 
Prester  John,  that  mysterious  Christian  empire, 
rarely  visited  by  European  eye  ? " 

"There  are  legends  of  two  such,"  said  Lance- 
lot, "an  Ethiopian  and  an  Asiatic  one;  and  the 
Ethiopian,  if  we  are  to  believe  Colonel  Harris's 
Journey  to  Shoa,  is  a  sufficiently  miserable 
failure." 

"True;  the  day  of  the  Chamitic  race  is  past; 
you  will  not  say  the  same  of  our  Caucasian 
empire.  To  our  race  the  present  belongs,  —  to 
England,  France,  Germany,  America,  —  to  us. 
Will  you  see  what  we  have  done,  and  perhaps 
bring  home,  after  long  wanderings,  a  message  for 
your  country  which  may  help  to  unravel  the 
tangled  web  of  this  strange  time?" 


320  Yeast 

"I  will,"  said  Lancelot,  "now,  this  moment. 
And  yet,  no.  There  is  one  with  whom  I  have 
promised  to  share  all  future  weal  and  woe.  With- 
out  him  I  can  take  no  step. " 

"Tregarva?" 

"Yes  —  he.  What  made  you  guess  that  I 
spoke  of  him?" 

"Mellot  told  me  of  him,  and  of  you,  too,  six 
weeks  ago.  He  is  now  gone  to  fetch  him  from 
Manchester.  I  cannot  trust  him  here  in  England 
yet.  The  country  made  him  sad;  London  has 
made  him  mad;  Manchester  may  make  him  bad. 
It  is  too  fearful  a  trial  even  for  his  faith.  I 
must  take  him  with  us." 

"  What  interest  in  him  —  not  to  say  what 
authority  over  him  —  have  you?" 

"  The  same  which  I  have  over  you.  You  will 
come  with  me ;  so  will  he.  It  is  my  business,  as 
my  name  signifies,  to  save  the  children  alive 
whom  European  society  leaves  carelessly  and 
ignorant ly  to  die.  And  as  for  my  power,  I 
come,"  said  he,  with  a  smile,  "from  a  country 
which  sends  no  one  on  its  errands  without  first 
thoroughly  satisfying  itself  as  to  his  power  of 
fulfilling  them." 

"  If  he  goes,  I  go  with  you. " 

"And  he  will  go.  And  yet,  think  what  you 
do.  It  is  a  fearful  journey.  They  who  travel  it, 
even  as  they  came  naked  out  of  their  mother's 
womb  —  even  as  they  return  thither,  and  carry 
nothing  with  them  of  all  which  they  have  gotten 
in  this  life,  so  must  those  who  travel  to  iny 
land." 

"What?  Tregarva?  Is  he,  too,  to  give  up 
all  ?  I  had  thought  that  I  saw  in  him  a  precious 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death    3  2 1 

possession,  one  for  which  I  would  barter  all  my 
scholarship,  my  talents,  — ay  —  my  life  itself." 

"  A  possession  worth  your  life  ?     What  then  ? " 

"Faith  in  an  unseen  God." 

"  Ask  him  whether  he  would  call  that  a  posses- 
sion —  his  own  in  any  sense  ?  " 

"He  would  call  it  a  revelation  to  him." 

"That  is,  a  taking  of  the  veil  from  something 
which  was  behind  the  veil  already." 

"Yes." 

"And  which  may  therefore  just  as  really  be 
behind  the  veil  in  other  cases  without  its  presence 
being  suspected." 

"Certainly." 

"  In  what  sense,  now,  is  that  a  possession  ?  Do 
you  possess  the  sun  because  you  see  it?  Did 
Herschel  create  Uranus  by  discovering  it;  or 
even  increase,  by  an  atom,  its  attraction  on  one 
particle  of  his  own  body  ?  " 

"Whither  is  all  this  tending?" 

"Hither.  Tregarva  does  not  possess  his  Father 
and  his  Lord;  he  is  possessed  by  them." 

"But  he  would  say  —  and  I  should  believe  him 
—  that  he  has  seen  and  known  them,  not  with  his 
bodily  eyes,  but  with  his  soul,  heart,  imagina- 
tion —  call  it  what  you  will.  All  I  know  is, 
that  between  him  and  me  there  is  a  great  gulf 
fixed." 

"What!  seen  and  known  them  utterly?  com- 
prehended them  ?  Are  they  not  infinite,  incom- 
prehensible? Can  the  less  comprehend  the 
greater  ? " 

"He  knows,  at  least,  enough  of  them  to  make 
him  what  I  am  not." 

"That  is,  he  knows  something  of  them.  And 
O— Vol.  v 


322  Yeast 

may  not  you  know  something  of  them  also?  — 
enough  to  make  you  what  he  is  not  ? " 

Lancelot  shook  his  head  in  silence. 

"Suppose  that  you  had  met  and  spoken  with 
your  father,  and  loved  him  when  you  saw  him, 
and  yet  were  not  aware  of  the  relation  in 
which  you  stood  to  him,  still  you  would  know 
him  ? " 

"  Not  the  most  important  thing  of  all  —  that 
he  was  my  father." 

"  Is  that  the  most  important  thing  ?  Is  it  not 
more  important  that  he  should  know  that  you 
were  his  son?  That  he  should  support,  guide, 
educate  you,  even  though  unseen?  Do  you  not 
know  that  some  one  has  been  doing  that  ? " 

"  That  I  have  been  supported,  guided,  educated, 
I  know  full  well;  but  by  whom  I  know  not. 
And  I  know,  too,  that  I  have  been  punished. 
And  therefore  —  therefore  I  cannot  free  the 
thought  of  a  Him  —  of  a  Person  —  only  of  a 
Destiny,  of  Laws  and  Powers,  which  have  no 
faces  wherewith  to  frown  awful  wrath  upon  me ! 
If  it  be  a  Person  who  has  been  leading  me,  I 
must  go  mad,  or  know  that  He  has  forgiven  ! " 

"  I  conceive  that  it  is  He,  and  not  punishment, 
which  you  fear  ?  " 

Lancelot  was  silent  a  moment;  .  .  .  "Yes. 
He,  and  not  hell  at  all,  is  what  I  fear.  He  can 
inflict  no  punishment  on  me  worse  than  the  inner 
hell  which  I  have  felt  already,  many  and  many  a 
time." 

"  Bona  verba  !  That  is  an  awful  thing  to  say : 
but  better  this  extreme  than  the  other.  .  .  .  And 
you  would  —  what  ? " 

"Be  pardoned." 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death    323 

"If  He  loves  you,  He  has  pardoned  you 
already." 

" How  do  I  know  that  He  loves  me? " 

"  How  does  Tregarva  ?  " 

"He  is  a  righteous  man,  and  I " 

"Am  a  sinner.  He  would,  and  rightly,  call 
himself  the  same." 

"  But  he  knows  that  God  loves  him  —  that  he  is 
God's  child." 

"  So,  then,  God  did  not  love  him  till  he  caused 
God  to  love  him,  by  knowing  that  He  loved  him  ? 
He  was  not  God's  child  till  he  made  himself  one, 
by  believing  that  he  was  one  when  as  yet  he  was 
not  ?  I  appeal  to  common  sense  and  logic.  .  .  . 
It  was  revealed  to  Tregarva  that  God  had  been 
loving  him  while  he  was  yet  a  bad  man.  If  He 
loved  him,  in  spite  of  his  sin,  why  should  He  not 
have  loved  you  ?  " 

"If  He  had  loved  me,  would  He  have  left  me 
in  ignorance  of  Himself?  For  if  He  be,  to  know 
Him  is  the  highest  good." 

"  Had  He  left  Tregarva  in  ignorance  of  Himself  ?" 

"No.  .  .  .  Certainly,  Tregarva  spoke  of  his 
conversion  as  of  a  turning  to  one  of  whom  he  had 
known  all  along,  and  disregarded." 

"Then  do  you  turn,   like  him,  to  Him  whom 

you  have  known  all  along,  and  disregarded." 
ii  j  p » 

"  Yes  —  you !  If  half  I  have  heard  and  seen  of 
you  be  true,  He  has  been  telling  you  more,  and 
not  less,  of  Himself  than  He  does  to  most  men. 
You,  for  aught  I  know,  may  know  more  of  Him 
than  Tregarva  does.  The  gulf  between  you  and 
him  is  this :  he  has  obeyed  what  he  knew  —  and 
you  have  not."  .  .  . 


324 

Lancelot  paused  a  moment,  then  — 

"  No !  —  do  not  cheat  me !  You  said  once  that 
you  were  a  churchman." 

"  So  I  am.  A  Catholic  of  the  Catholics. 
What  then  ? " 

"Who  is  He  to  whom  you  ask  me  to  turn? 
You  talk  to  me  of  Him  as  my  Father;  but  you 
talk  of  Him  to  men  of  your  own  creed  as  the 
Father.  You  have  mysterious  dogmas  of  a  Three 
in  One.  I  know  them.  ...  I  have  admired 
them.  In  all  their  forms  —  in  the  Vedas,  in  the 
Neo-Platonists,  in  Jacob  Behmen,  in  your  Catho- 
lic creeds,  in  Coleridge,  and  the  Germans  from 
whom  he  borrowed,  I  have  looked  at  them,  and 
found  in  them  beautiful  phantasms  of  philoso- 
phy, ...  all  but  scientific  necessities;  .  .  . 
but " 

"But  what?" 

"  I  do  not  want  cold  abstract  necessities  of 
logic:  I  want  living  practical  facts.  If  those 
mysterious  dogmas  speak  of  real  and  necessary 
properties  of  His  being,  they  must  be  necessarily 
interwoven  in  practice  with  His  revelation  of 
Himself?" 

"Most  true.  But  how  would  you  have  Him 
nnveil  Himself? " 

"By  unveiling  Himself." 

"What?  To  your  simple  intuition?  That 
was  Semele's  ambition.  .  .  .  You  recollect  the 
end  of  that  myth.  You  recollect,  too,  as  you 
have  read  the  Neo-Platonists,  the  result  of  their 
similar  attempt." 

"Idolatry  and  magic." 

"True;  and  yet,  such  is  the  ambition  of  man, 
you  who  were  just  now  envying  Tregarva,  are 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death     325 

already  longing  to  climb  even  higher  than  Saint 
Theresa. " 

"  I  do  not  often  indulge  in  such  an  ambition. 
But  I  have  read  in  your  Schoolmen  tales  of  a 
Beatific  Vision;  how  that  the  highest  good  for 
man  was  to  see  God." 

"  And  did  you  believe  that?  " 

"  One  cannot  believe  the  impossible  —  only 
regret  its  impossibility." 

"  Impossibility  ?  You  can  only  see  the  Uncreate 
in  the  Create  —  the  Infinite  in  the  Finite  —  the 
absolute  good  in  that  which  is  like  the  good. 
Does  Tregarva  pretend  to  more?  He  sees  God 
in  His  own  thoughts  and  consciousnesses,  and  in 
the  events  of  the  world  around  him,  imaged  in 
the  mirror  of  his  own  mind.  Is  your  mirror, 
then,  so  much  narrower  than  his  ? " 

"I  have  none.  I  see  but  myself,  and  the 
world,  and  far  above  them,  a  dim  awful  Unity, 
which  is  but  a  notion." 

"  Fool !  —  and  slow  of  heart  to  believe !  Where 
else  would  you  see  Him  but  in  yourself  and  in 
the  world?  They  are  all  things  cognizable  to 
you.  Where  else,  but  everywhere,  would  you 
see  Him  whom  no  man  hath  seen,  or  can  see? " 

"When  He  shows  Himself  to  me  in  them, 
then  I  may  see  Him.  But  now " 

"You  have  seen  Him;  and  because  you  do  not 
know  the  name  of  what  you  see  —  or  rather  will 
not  acknowledge  it  —  you  fancy  that  it  is  not 
there." 

" How  in  His  name?     What  have  I  seen? " 

"Ask  yourself.  Have  you  not  seen,  in  your 
fancy,  at  least,  an  ideal  of  man,  for  which  you 
spurned  (for  Mellot  has  told  me  all)  the  merely 


326  Yeast 

negative  angelic  —  the  merely  receptive  and  in- 
dulgent feminine-ideals  of  humanity,  and  longed 
to  be  a  man,  like  that  ideal  and  perfect  man  ?  " 

"I  have." 

"And  what  was  your  misery  all  along?  Was 
it  not  that  you  felt  you  ought  to  be  a  person  with 
a  one  inner  unity,  a  one  practical  will,  purpose, 
and  business  given  to  you  —  not  invented  by 
yourself  —  in  the  great  order  and  harmony  of  the 
universe,  —  and  that  you  were  not  one  ?  —  That 
your  self-willed  fancies,  and  self-pleasing  pas- 
sions, had  torn  you  in  pieces,  and  left  you  in- 
consistent, dismembered,  helpless,  purposeless? 
That,  in  short,  you  were  below  your  ideal,  just  in 
proportion  as  you  were  not  a  person? " 

"  God  knows  you  speak  truth ! " 

"Then  must  not  that  ideal  of  humanity  be  a 
person  himself  ?  —  Else  how  can  he  be  the  ideal 
man?  Where  is  your  logic?  An  impersonal 
ideal  of  a  personal  species!  .  .  .  And  what  is 
the  most  special  peculiarity  of  man?  Is  it  not 
that  he  alone  of  creation  is  a  son,  with  a  Father 
to  love  and  to  obey?  Then  must  not  the  ideal 
man  be  a  son  also  ?  And  last,  but  not  least,  is  it 
not  the  very  property  of  man  that  he  is  a  spirit 
invested  with  flesh  and  blood?  Then  must  not 
the  ideal  man  have,  once  at  least,  taken  on  him- 
self flesh  and  blood  also?  Else,  how  could  he 
fulfil  his  own  idea?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  .  That  thought,  too,  has 
glanced  through  my  mind  at  moments,  like  a 
lightning-flash ;  till  I  have  envied  the  old  Greeks 
their  faith  in  a  human  Zeus,  son  of  Kronos  —  a 
human  Phoibos,  son  of  Zeus.  But  I  could  not 
rest  in  them.  They  are  noble.  But  are  they  — 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death    327 

are  any  —  perfect  ideals  ?  The  one  thing  I  did, 
and  do,  and  will  believe,  is  the  one  which  they 
do  not  fulfil  —  that  man  is  meant  to  be  the  con- 
queror of  the  earth,  matter,  nature,  decay,  death 
itself,  and  to  conquer  them,  as  Bacon  says,  by 
obeying  them." 

"Hold  it  fast;  —  but  follow  it  out,  and  say 
boldly,  the  ideal  of  humanity  must  be  one  who 
has  conquered  nature  —  one  who  rules  the  uni- 
verse—  one  who  has  vanquished  death  itself;  and 
conquered  them,  as  Bacon  says,  not  by  violating, 
but  by  submitting  to  them.  Have  you  never 
heard  of  one  who  is  said  to  have  done  this  ?  How 
do  you  know  that  in  this  ideal  which  you  have 
seen,  you  have  not  seen  the  Son  —  the  perfect 
Man,  who  died  and  rose  again,  and  sits  forever 
Healer,  and  Lord,  and  Ruler  of  the  universe? 
.  .  .  Stay  —  do  not  answer  me.  Have  you  not, 
besides,  had  dreams  of  an  All-Father  —  from 
whom,  in  some  mysterious  way,  all  things  and 
beings  must  derive  their  source,  and  that  Son  — 
if  my  theory  be  true  —  among  the  rest,  and  above 
all  the  rest?" 

"Who  has  not?  But  what  more  dim  or  distant 
—  more  drearily,  hopelessly  notional,  than  that 
thought  ? " 

"Only  the  thought  that  there  is  none.  But 
the  dreariness  was  only  in  your  own  inconsistency. 
If  He  be  the  Father  of  all,  He  must  be  the 
Father  of  persons  —  He  Himself  therefore  a  Per- 
son. He  must  be  the  Father  of  all  in  whom 
dwell  personal  qualities,  power,  wisdom,  creative 
energy,  love,  justice,  pity.  Can  He  be  their 
Father,  unless  all  these  very  qualities  are  infi- 
nitely His  ?  Does  He  now  look  so  terrible  to  you  ? " 


328  Yeast 

"I  have  had  this  dream,  too;  but  I  turned 
away  from  it  in  dread." 

"  Doubtless  you  did.  Some  day  you  will  know 
why.  Does  that  former  dream  of  a  human  Son 
relieve  this  dream  of  none  of  its  awfulness? 
May  not  the  type  be  beloved  for  the  sake  of  its 
Antitype,  even  if  the  very  name  of  All-Father  is 
no  guarantee  for  His  paternal  pity!  .  .  .  But 
you  have  had  this  dream.  How  know  you,  that 
in  it  you  were  not  allowed  a  glimpse,  however 
dim  and  distant,  of  Him  whom  the  Catholics  call 
the  Father?" 

"It  may  be;  but " 

"Stay  again.  Had  you  never  the  sense  of  a 
Spirit  in  you  —  a  will,  an  energy,  an  inspiration, 
deeper  than  the  region  of  consciousness  and 
reflection,  which,  like  the  wind,  blew  where  it 
listed,  and  you  heard  the  sound  of  it  ringing 
through  your  whole  consciousness,  and  yet  knew 
not  whence  it  came,  or  whither  it  went,  or  why 
it  drove  you  on  to  dare  and  suffer,  to  love  and 
hate ;  to  be  a  fighter,  a  sportsman,  an  artist " 

"  And  a  drunkard ! "  added  Lancelot,  sadly. 

"And  a  drunkard.  But  did  it  never  seem  to 
you  that  this  strange  wayward  spirit,  if  anything, 
was  the  very  root  and  core  of  your  own  personal- 
ity ?  And  had  you  never  a  craving  for  the  help 
of  some  higher,  mightier  spirit,  to  guide  and 
strengthen  yours;  to  regulate  and  civilize  its 
savage  and  spasmodic  self-will  ?  to  teach  you 
your  rightful  place  in  the  great  order  of  the 
universe  around;  to  fill  you  with  a  continuous 
purpose  and  with  a  continuous  will  to  do  it? 
Have  you  never  had  a  dream  of  an  Inspirer  ?  —  a 
spirit  of  all  spirits  ? " 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death    329 

Lancelot  turned  away  with  a  shudder. 

"Talk  of  anything  but  that!  Little  you  know 
—  and  yet  you  seem  to  know  everything  —  the 
agony  of  craving  with  which  I  have  longed  for 
guidance;  the  rage  and  disgust  which  possessed 
me  when  I  tried  one  pretended  teacher  after 
anpther,  and  found  in  myself  depths  which  their 
spirits  could  not,  or  rather  would  not,  touch.  I 
have  been  irreverent  to  the  false,  from  very  long- 
ing to  worship  the  true ;  I  have  been  a  rebel  to 
sham  leaders,  for  very  desire  to  be  loyal  to  a  real 
one;  I  have  envied  my  poor  cousin  his  Jesuits; 
I  have  envied  my  own  pointers  their  slavery  to 
my  whip  and  whistle;  I  have  fled,  as  a  last 
resource,  to  brandy  and  opium,  for  the  inspira- 
tion which  neither  man  nor  demon  would  bestow. 
.  .  .  Then  I  found  .  .  .  you  know  my  story.  .  .  . 
And  when  I  looked  to  her  to  guide  and  inspire 
me,  behold !  I  found  myself,  by  the  very  laws  of 
humanity,  compelled  to  guide  and  inspire  her;  — 
blind,  to  lead  the  blind !  —  Thank  God,  for  her 
sake,  that  she  was  taken  from  me ! " 

"Did  you  ever  mistake  these  substitutes,  even 
the  noblest  of  them,  for  the  reality  !  Did  not 
your  very  dissatisfaction  with  them  show  you  that 
the  true  inspirer  ought  to  be,  if  he  were  to  satisfy 
your  cravings,  a  person,  truly  —  else  how  could  he 
inspire  and  teach  you,  a  person  yourself !  —  but  an 
utterly  infinite,  omniscient,  eternal  person  ?  How 
know  you  that  in  that  dream  He  was  not  unveil- 
ing Himself  to  you  —  He,  The  Spirit,  who  is  the 
Lord  and  Giver  of  Life ;  The  Spirit,  who  teaches 
men  their  duty  and  relation  to  those  above,  around, 
beneath  them ;  the  Spirit  of  order,  obedience,  loy- 
alty, brotherhood,  mercy,  condescension?" 


33°  Yeast 

"But  I  never  could  distinguish  these  dreams 
from  each  other;  the  moment  that  I  essayed  to 
separate  them,  I  seemed  to  break  up  the  thought 
of  an  absolute  one  ground  of  all  things,  without 
which  the  universe  would  have  seemed  a  piece- 
meal chaos;  and  they  receded  to  infinite  distance, 
and  became  transparent,  barren,  notional  shadows 
of  my  own  brain,  even  as  your  words  are  now." 

"  How  know  you  that  you  were  meant  to  dis- 
tinguish them?  How  know  you  that  that  very 
impossibility  was  not  the  testimony  of  fact  and 
experience  to  that  old  Catholic  dogma,  for  the 
sake  of  which  you  just  now  shrank  from  my 
teaching?  I  say  that  this  is  so.  How  do  you 
know  that  it  is  not?" 

"But  how  do  I  know  that  it  is?  I  want 
proof." 

"  And  you  are  the  man  who  was,  five  minutes 
ago,  crying  out  for  practical  facts,  and  disdaining 
cold  abstract  necessities  of  logic  1  Can  you  prove 
that  your  body  exists  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Can  you  prove  that  your  spirit  exists  ? " 

"No." 

"And  yet  know  that  they  both  exist.  And 
how?" 

"  Solvitur  ambulando. " 

"Exactly.  When  you  try  to  prove  either  of 
them  without  the  other,  you  fail.  You  arrive,  if 
at  anything,  at  some  barren  polar  notion.  By 
action  alone  you  prove  the  mesothetic  fact  which 
underlies  and  unites  them." 

"  Quorsum  hcec  ?  " 

"Hither.  I  am  not  going  to  demonstrate  the 
indemonstrable —  to  give  you  intellectual  notions 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death    3  3 1 

which,  after  all,  will  be  but  reflexes  of  my  own 
peculiar  brain,  and  so  add  the  green  of  my  spec- 
tacles to  the  orange  of  yours,  and  make  night 
hideous  by  fresh  monsters.  I  may  help  you  to 
think  yourself  into  a  theoretical  Tritheism,  or  a 
theoretical  Sabellianism ;  I  cannot  make  you 
think  yourself  into  practical  and  living  Cathol- 
icism. As  you  of  anthropology,  so  I  say  of 
theology,  —  Solvitur  ambulando.  Don't  believe 
Catholic  doctrine  unless  you  like;  faith  is  free. 
But  see  if  you  can  reclaim  either  society  or  your- 
self without  it;  see  if  He  will  let  you  reclaim 
them.  Take  Catholic  doctrine  for  granted;  act 
on  it ;  and  see  if  you  will  not  reclaim  them  !  " 

"Take  for  granted?  Am  I  to  come,  after  all, 
to  implicit  faith  ?  " 

"Implicit  fiddlesticks!  Did  you  ever  read  the 
Novum  Organum  ?  Mellot  told  me  that  you  were 
a  geologist." 

"Well?" 

"  You  took  for  granted  what  you  read  in  geo- 
logical books,  and  went  to  the  mine  and  the 
quarry  afterwards,  to  verify  it  in  practice;  and 
according  as  you  found  fact  correspond  to  theory, 
you  retained  or  rejected.  Was  that  implicit 
faith,  or  common  sense,  common  humility,  and 
sound  induction  ? " 

"Sound  induction,  at  least." 

"Then  go  now,  and  do  likewise.  Believe  that 
the  learned,  wise,  and  good,  for  1800  years,  may 
possibly  have  found  out  somewhat,  or  have  been 
taught  somewhat,  on  this  matter,  and  test  their 
theory  by  practice.  If  a  theory  on  such  a  point 
is  worth  anything  at  all,  it  is  omnipotent  and  all- 
explaining.  If  it  will  not  work,  of  course  there 


332  Yeast 

is  no  use  keeping  it  a  mometit.  Perhaps  it  will 
work.  I  say  it  will." 

"  But  I  shall  not  work  it ;  I  still  dread  my  own 
spectacles.  I  dare  not  trust  myself  alone  to 
verify  a  theory  of  Murchison's  or  Lyell's.  How 
dare  I  trust  myself  in  this  ? " 

"Then  do  not  trust  yourself  alone:  come  and 
see  what  others  are  doing.  Come,  and  become  a 
member  of  a  body  which  is  verifying,  by  united 
action,  those  universal  and  eternal  truths,  which 
are  too  great  for  the  grasp  of  any  one  time-ridden 
individual.  Not  that  we  claim  the  gift  of  infal- 
libility, any  more  than  I  do  that  of  perfect  utter- 
ance of  the  little  which  we  do  know."- 

"Then  what  do  you  promise  me  in  asking  me 
to  go  with  you  ? " 

"  Practical  proof  that  these  my  words  are  true, 
—  practical  proof  that  they  can  make  a  nation  all 
that  England  might  be  and  is  not,  —  the  sight  of 
what  a  people  might  become  who,  knowing  thus 
far,  do  what  they  know.  We  believe  no  more 
than  you,  but  we  believe  it.  Come  and  see !  — 
and  yet  you  will  not  see;  facts,  and  the  reasons 
of  them,  will  be  as  impalpable  to  you  there  as 
here,  unless  you  can  again  obey  your  Novum 
Organum. " 

"How  then?" 

"  By  renouncing  all  your  idols  —  the  idols  of 
the  race  and  of  the  market,  of  the  study  and  of 
the  theatre.  Every  national  prejudice,  every 
vulgar  superstition,  every  remnant  of  pedantic 
system,  every  sentimental  like  or  dislike,  must 
be  left  behind  you,  for  the  induction  of  the  world 
problem.  You  must  empty  yourself  before  God 
will  fill  you." 


The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death    333 

"Of  what  can  I  strip  myself  more?  I  know 
nothing;  I  can  do  nothing;  I  hope  nothing;  I 
fear  nothing;  I  am  nothing." 

"And  you  would  gain  something.  But  for 
what  purpose  ?  —  for  on  that  depends  your  whole 
success.  To  be  famous,  great,  glorious,  power- 
ful, beneficent?" 

"As  I  live,  the  height  of  my  ambition,  small 
though  it  be,  is  only  to  find  my  place,  though  it 
were  but  as  a  sweeper  of  chimneys.  If  I  dare 
wish  —  if  I  dare  choose,  it  would*be  only  this  — 
to  regenerate  one  little  parish  in  the  whole  world. 
...  To  do  that,  and  die,  for  aught  I  care,  with- 
out ever  being  recognized  as  the  author  of  my 
own  deeds  ...  to  hear  them,  if  need  be,  imputed 
to  another,  and  myself  accursed  as  a  fool,  if  I 
can  but  atone  for  the  sins  of  .  .  .  " 

He  paused;  but  his  teacher  understood 
him. 

"It  is  enough,"  he  said.  "Come  with  me; 
Tregarva  waits  for  us  near.  Again  I  warn  you ; 
you  will  hear  nothing  new;  you  shall  only  see 
what  you,  and  all  around  you,  have  known  and 
not  done,  known  and  done.  We  have  no  peculiar 
doctrines  or  systems ;  the  old  creeds  are  enough 
for  us.  But  we  have  obeyed  the  teaching  which 
we  received  in  each  and  every  age,  and  allowed 
ourselves  to  be  built  up,  generation  by  genera- 
tion—  as  the  rest  of  Christendom  might  have 
done  —  into  a  living  temple,  on  the  foundation 
which  is  laid  already,  and  other  than  which  no 
man  can  lay." 

"  And  what  is  that  ? " 

"Jesus  Christ  — THE  MAN." 

He  took  Lancelot   by  the  hand.     A  peaceful 


334  Yeast 

warmth  diffused  itself  over  his  limbs;  the  dron- 
ing of  the  organ  sounded  fainter  and  more  faint ; 
the  marble  monuments  grew  dim  and  distant; 
and,  half  unconsciously,  he  followed  like  a  child 
through  the  cathedral  door. 


EPILOGUE 

I  CAN  foresee  many  criticisms,  and  those  not 
unreasonable  ones,  on  this  little  book  —  let 
it  be  some  excuse  at  least  for  me,  that  I  have 
foreseen  them.  Readers  will  complain,  I  doubt 
not,  of  the  very  mythical  and  mysterious  dtnoue- 
ment  of  a  story  which  began  by  things  so  gross 
and  palpable  as  field-sports  and  pauperism.  But 
is  it  not  true  that,  sooner  or  later,  "  omnia  exeunt 
in  mysterium  "  ?  Out  of  mystery  we  all  came  at 
our  birth,  fox-hunters  and  paupers,  sages  and 
saints ;  into  mystery  we  shall  all  return  ...  at 
all  events,  when  we  die;  probably,  as  it  seems 
to  me,  some  of  us  will  return  thither  before  we 
die.  For  if  the  signs  of  the  times  mean  any- 
thing, they  portend,  I  humbly  submit,  a  some- 
what mysterious  and  mythical  denouement  to  this 
very  age,  and  to  those  struggles  of  it  which  I 
have  herein  attempted,  clumsily  enough,  to 
sketch.  We  are  entering  fast,  I  both  hope  and 
fear,  into  the  region  of  prodigy,  true  and  false; 
and  our  great-grandchildren  will  look  back  on  the 
latter  half  of  this  century,  and  ask  if  it  were 
possible  that  such  things  could  happen  in  an 
organized  planet  ?  The  Benthamites  will  receive 
this  announcement,  if  it  ever  meets  their  eyes, 
with  shouts  of  laughter.  Be  it  so  ...  nous 
verrons.  ...  In  the  year  1847,  if  they  will 


336  Yeast 

recollect,  they  were  congratulating  themselves  on 
the  nations  having  grown  too  wise  to  go  to  war 
any  more  .  .  .  and  in  1848?  So  it  has  been 
from  the  beginning.  What  did  philosophers 
expect  in  1792?  What  did  they  see  in  1793? 
Popery  was  to  be  eternal;  but  the  Reformation 
came  nevertheless.  Rome  was  to  be  eternal; 
but  Alaric  came.  Jerusalem  was  to  be  eternal; 
but  Titus  came.  Gomorrha  was  to  be  eternal,  I 
doubt  not;  but  the  fire-floods  came.  .  .  .  "As  it 
was  in  the  days  of  Noah,  so  shall  it  be  in  the 
days  of  the  Son  of  Man.  They  were  eating, 
drinking,  marrying,  and  giving  in  marriage;  and 
the  flood  came  and  swept  them  all  away."  Of 
course  they  did  not  expect  it.  They  went  on 
saying,  "Where  is  the  promise  of  his  coming? 
For  all  things  continue  as  they  were  from  the 
beginning."  Most  true;  but  what  if  they  were 
from  the  beginning  —  over  a  volcano's  mouth? 
What  if  the  method  whereon  things  have  pro- 
ceeded since  the  creation  were,  as  geology  as 
well  as  history  proclaims,  a  cataclysmic  method? 
What  then?  Why  should  not  this  age,  as  all 
others  like  it  have  done,  end  in  a  cataclysm,  and 
a  prodigy,  and  a  mystery?  And  why  should  not 
my  little  book  do  likewise? 

Again  —  Readers  will  probably  complain  of 
the  fragmentary  and  unconnected  form  of  the 
book.  Let  them  first  be  sure  that  that  is  not  an 
integral  feature  of  the  subject  itself,  and  there- 
fore the  very  form  the  book  should  take.  Do  not 
young  men  think,  speak,  act,  just  now,  in  this 
very  incoherent,  fragmentary  way;  without  me- 
thodic education  or  habits  of  thought;  with  the 
various  stereotyped  systems  which  they  have 


Epilogue  337 

received  by  tradition,  breaking  up  under  them 
like  ice  in  a  thaw;  with  a  thousand  facts  and 
notions,  which  they  know  not  how  to  classify, 
pouring  in  on  them  like  a  flood?  —  a  very  Yeasty 
state  of  mind  altogether,  like  a  mountain  burn 
in  a  spring  rain,  carrying  down  with  it  stones, 
sticks,  peat-water,  addle  grouse-eggs  and  drowned 
kingfishers,  fertilizing  salts  and  vegetable  poisons 
—  not,  alas !  without  a  large  crust,  here  and 
there,  of  sheer  froth.  Yet  no  heterogeneous 
confused  flood-deposit,  no  fertile  meadows  below. 
And  no  high  water,  no  fishing.  It  is  in  the  long 
black  droughts,  when  the  water  is  foul  from  low- 
ness,  and  not  from  height,  that  Hydras  and 
Desmidiae,  and  Rotifers,  and  all  uncouth  pseud- 
organisms,  bred  of  putridity,  begin  to  multiply, 
and  the  fish  are  sick  for  want  of  a  fresh,  and  the 
cunningest  artificial  fly  is  of  no  avail,  and  the 
shrewdest  angler  will  do  nothing  —  except  with  a 
gross  fleshly  gilt-tailed  worm,  or  the  cannibal 
bait  of  roe,  whereby  parent  fishes,  like  competi- 
tive barbarisms,  devour  each  other's  flesh  and 
blood  —  perhaps  their  own.  It  is  when  the 
stream  is  clearing  after  a  flood,  that  the  fish  will 
rise.  .  .  .  When  will  the  flood  clear,  and  the  fish 
come  on  the  feed  again  ? 

Next;  I  shall  be  blamed  for  having  left  untold 
the  fate  of  those  characters  who  have  acted 
throughout  as  Lancelot's  satellites.  But  indeed 
their  only  purpose  consisted  in  their  influence 
on  his  development,  and  that  of  Tregarva;  I  do 
not  see  that  we  have  any  need  to  follow  them 
farther.  The  reader  can  surely  conjecture  their 
history  for  himself.  .  .  .  He  may  be  pretty  cer- 
tain that  they  have  gone  the  way  of  the  world 


Yeast 

.  .  .  abierunt  ad  plures  ...  for  this  life  or  for 
the  next.  They  have  done  —  very  much  what  he 
or  I  might  have  done  in  their  place  —  nothing. 
Nature  brings  very  few  of  her  children  to  perfec- 
tion, in  these  days  or  any  other.  .  .  .  And  for 
Grace,  which  does  bring  its  children  to  perfec- 
tion, the  quantity  and  quality  of  the  perfection 
must  depend  on  the  quantity  and  quality  of  the 
grace,  and  that  again,  to  an  awful  extent  —  The 
Giver  only  knows  to  how  great  an  extent  —  on 
the  will  of  the  recipients,  and  therefore  in  exact 
proportion  to  their  lowness  in  the  human  scale, 
on  the  circumstances  which  environ  them.  So 
my  characters  are  now  —  very  much  what  the 
reader  might  expect  them  to  be.  I  confess  them 
to  be  unsatisfactory;  so  are  most  things:  but 
how  can  I  solve  problems  which  fact  has  not  yet 
solved  for  me?  How  am  I  to  extricate  my 
antitypal  characters,  when  their  living  types  have 
not  yet  extricated  themselves?  When  the  age 
moves  on,  my  story  shall  move  on  with  it.  Let 
it  be  enough,  that  my  puppets  have  retreated  in 
good  order,  and  that  I  am  willing  to  give  to  those 
readers  who  have  conceived  something  of  human 
interest  for  them,  the  latest  accounts  of  their 
doings. 

With  the  exception,  that  is,  of  Mellot  and 
Sabina.  Them  I  confess  to  be  an  utterly  myste- 
rious, fragmentary  little  couple.  Why  not  ?  Do 
you  not  meet  with  twenty  such  in  the  course  of 
your  life?  —  Charming  people,  who  for  aught  you 
know  may  be  opera  folk  from  Paris,  or  emissaries 
from  the  Czar,  or  disguised  Jesuits,  or  disguised 
Angels  .  .  .  who  evidently  "have  a  history," 
and  a  strange  one,  which  you  never  expect  or 


Epilogue  339 

attempt  to  fathom;  who  interest  you  intensely 
for  a  while,  and  then  are  whirled  away  again  in 
the  great  world-waltz,  and  lost  in  the  crowd  for- 
ever? Why  should  you  wish  my  story  to  be  more 
complete  than  theirs  is,  or  less  romantic  than 
theirs  maybe?  There  are  more  things  in  Lon- 
don, as  well  as  in  heaven  and  earth,  than  are 
dreamt  of  in  our  philosophy.  If  you  but  knew 
the  secret  history  of  that  dull  gentleman  opposite 
whom  you  sat  at  dinner  yesterday !  —  the  real 
thoughts  of  that  chattering  girl  whom  you  took 
down  !  —  "  Omnia  exeunt  in  mysterium, "  I  say 
again.  Every  human  being  is  a  romance,  a 
miracle  to  himself  now;  and  will  appear  as  one 
to  all  the  world  in  That  Day. 

But  now  for  the  rest;  and  Squire  Lavington 
first.  He  is  a  very  fair  sample  of  the  fate  of  the 
British  public ;  for  he  is  dead  and  buried :  and 
readers  would  not  have  me  extricate  him  out  of 
that  situation.  If  you  ask  news  of  the  reason  and 
manner  of  his  end,  I  can  only  answer  that,  like 
many  others,  he  went  out  —  as  candles  do.  I  be- 
lieve he  expressed  general  repentance  for  all  his 
sins  —  all,  at  least,  of  which  he  was  aware.  To 
confess  and  repent  of  the  state  of  the  Whitford 
Priors  estate,  and  of  the  poor  thereon,  was  of 
course  more  than  any  minister,  of  any  denomi- 
nation whatsoever,  could  be  required  to  demand 
of  him ;  seeing  that  would  have  involved  a  recog- 
nition of  those  duties  of  property,  of  which  the 
good  old  gentleman  was  to  the  last  a  stanch 
denier;  and  which  are  as  yet  seldom  supposed 
to  be  included  in  any  Christian  creed,  Catholic 
or  other.  Two  sermons  were  preached  in  Whit- 
ford  on  the  day  of  his  funeral;  one  by  Mr. 


340  Yeast 

O'Blareaway,  on  the  text  from  Job,  provided 
for  such  occasions  —  "When  the  ear  heard  him, 
then  it  blessed  him,"  etc.  etc. ;  the  other  by  the 
Baptist  preacher,  on  two  verses  of  the  forty-ninth 
Psalm  — 

"  They  fancy  that  their  houses  shall  endure 
forever,  and  call  the  lands  after  their  own 
names. 

"  Yet  man  being  in  honor  hath  no  understand- 
ing, but  is  compared  to  the  beasts  that  perish." 

Waiving  the  good  taste,  which  was  probably  on 
a  par  in  both  cases,  the  reader  is  left  to  decide 
which  of  the  two  texts  was  most  applicable. 

Mrs.  Lavington  is  Mrs.  Lavington  no  longer. 
She  has  married,  to  the  astonishment  of  the  world 
in  general,  that  "  excellent  man,"  Mr.  O'Blareaway, 
who  has  been  discovered  not  to  be  quite  as  young 
as  he  appeared,  his  graces  being  principally  owing 
to  a  Brutus  wig,  which  he  has  now  wisely  dis- 
carded. Mrs.  Lavington  now  sits  in  state  under 
her  husband's  ministry,  as  the  leader  of  the  re- 
ligious world  in  the  fashionable  watering-place 
of  Steamingbath,  and  derives  her  notions  of  the 
past,  present,  and  future  state  of  the  universe 
principally  from  those  two  meek  and  unbiassed 
periodicals,  the  "  Protestant  Hue-and-Cry  "  and  the 
"  Christian  Satirist "  to  both  of  which  O'Blareaway 
is  a  constant  contributor.  She  has  taken  such  an 
aversion  to  Whitford  since  Argemone's  death,  that 
she  has  ceased  to  have  any  connection  with  that 
unhealthy  locality,  beyond  the  popular  and  easy 
one  of  rent-receiving.  O'Blareaway  has  never  en- 
tered the  parish  to  his  knowledge  since  Mr.  Lav- 
ington's  funeral;  and  was  much  pleased,  the  last 
time  I  rode  with  him,  at  my  informing  him  that  a 


Epilogue  341 

certain  picturesque  moorland  which  he  had  been 
greatly  admiring,  was  his  own  possession.  .  .  . 
After  all,  he  is  "  an  excellent  man ;  "  and  when  I 
met  a  large  party  at  his  house  the  other  day,  and 
beheld  dory  and  surmullet,  champagne  and  lach- 
ryma  Christi,  amid  all  the  glory  of  the  Whitford 
plate  .  .  .  (some  of  it  said  to  have  belonged  to 
the  altar  of  the  Priory  Church  four  hundred  years 
ago),  I  was  deeply  moved  by  the  impressive  tone 
in  which,  at  the  end  of  a  long  grace,  he  prayed 
"  that  the  daily  bread  of  our  less  favored  brethren 
might  be  mercifully  vouchsafed  to  them."  .  .  . 
My  dear  readers,  would  you  have  me,  even  if  I 
could,  extricate  him  from  such  an  Elysium  by  any 
denouement  whatsoever  ? 

Poor  dear  Luke,  again,  is  said  to  be  painting 
lean  frescos  for  the  Something-or-other-Kirche  at 
Munich ;  and  the  vicar,  under  the  name  of  Father 
Stylites,  of  the  order  of  St.  Philumena,  is  preaching 
impassioned  sermons  to  crowded  congregations 
at  St.  George's,  Bedlam.  How  can  I  extricate 
them  from  that?  No  one  has  come  forth  of  it 
yet,  to  my  knowledge,  except  by  paths  whereof 
I  shall  use  Lessing's  saying,  "  I  may  have  my 
whole  hand  full  of  truth,  and  yet  find  good  to  open 
only  my  little  finger."  But  who  cares  for  their 
coming  out?  They  are  but  two  more  added  to 
the  five  hundred,  at  whose  moral  suicide,  and  dive 
into  the  Roman  Avernus,  a  quasi-Protestant  pub- 
lic looks  on  with  a  sort  of  savage  satisfaction,  cry- 
ing only,  "  Did  n't  we  tell  you  so  ?  "  —  and  more 
than  half  hopes  that  they  will  not  come  back  again, 
lest  they  should  be  discovered  to  have  learnt  any- 
thing while  they  were  there.  What  are  two  among 
that  five  hundred?  much  more  among  the  five 


342  Yeast 

thousand  who  seem  destined  shortly  to  follow 
them? 

The  banker,  thanks  to  Barnakill's  assistance,  is 
rapidly  getting  rich  again  —  who  would  wish  to 
stop  him  ?  However,  he  is  wiser,  on  some  points 
at  least,  than  he  was  of  yore.  He  has  taken  up 
the  flax  movement  violently  of  late  —  perhaps 
owing  to  some  hint  of  Barnakill's  —  talks  of  noth- 
ing but  Chevalier  Claussen  and  Mr.  Donellan,  and 
is  very  anxious  to  advance  capital  to  any  landlord 
who  will  grow  flax  on  Mr.  Warnes's  method, 
either  in  England  or  Ireland.  .  .  .  John  Bull, 
however,  has  not  yet  awakened  sufficiently  to  lis- 
ten to  his  overtures,  but  sits  up  in  bed,  dolefully 
rubbing  his  eyes,  and  bemoaning  the  evanishment 
of  his  protectionist  dream  —  altogether  realizing 
tolerably,  he  and  his  land,  Dr.  Watts'  well-known 
moral  song  concerning  the  sluggard  and  his  garden. 

Lord  Minchampstead  again  prospers.  Either 
the  nuns  of  Minchampstead  have  left  no  Nemesis 
behind  them,  like  those  of  Whitford,  or  a  certain 
wisdom  and  righteousness  of  his,  however  dim  and 
imperfect,  averts  it  for  a  time.  So,  as  I  said,  he 
prospers,  and  is  hated ;  especially  by  his  farmers, 
to  whom  he  has  just  offered  long  leases,  and  a 
sliding  corn-rent.  They  would  have  hated  him 
just  the  same  if  he  had  kept  them  at  rack-rents ; 
and  he  has  not  forgotten  that;  but  they  have. 
They  looked  shy  at  the  leases,  because  they  bind 
them  to  farm  high,  which  they  do  not  know  how 
to  do ;  and  at  the  corn-rent,  because  they  think 
that  he  expects  wheat  to  rise  again  —  which,  being 
a  sensible  man,  he  very  probably  does.  But  for 
my  story  —  I  certainly  do  not  see  how  to  extri- 
cate him  or  any  one  else  from  farmers'  stupidity, 


Epilogue  343 

greed,  and  ill-will.  .  .  .  That  question  must  have 
seven  years'  more  free-trade  to  settle  it,  before  I 
can  say  anything  thereon.  Still  less  can  I  fore- 
shadow the  fate  of  his  eldest  son,  who  has  just 
been  rusticated  from  Christ  Church  for  riding  one 
of  Simmon's  hacks  through  a  china-shop  window ; 
especially  as  the  youth  is  reported  to  be  given  to 
piquette  and  strong  liquors,  and,  like  many  noble- 
men's eldest  sons,  is  considered  "  not  to  have  the 
talent  of  his  father."  As  for  the  old  lord  himself, 
I  have  no  wish  to  change  or  develop  him  in  any 
way  —  except  to  cut  slips  off  him,  as  you  do  off  a 
willow,  and  plant  two  or  three  in  every  county 
in  England.  Let  him  alone  to  work  out  his  own 
plot  ...  we  have  not  seen  the  end  of  it  yet ;  but 
whatever  it  will  be,  England  has  need  of  him  as 
a  transition-stage  between  feudalism  and  *  *  *  *, 
for  many  a  day  to  come.  If  he  be  not  the  ideal 
landlord,  he  is  nearer  it  than  any  we  are  like  yet 
to  see.  .  .  . 

Except  one ;  and  that,  after  all,  is  Lord  Vieux- 
bois.  Let  him  go  on,  like  a  gallant  gentleman 
as  he  is,  and  prosper.  And  he  will  prosper,  for 
he  fears  God,  and  God  is  with  him.  He  has  much 
to  learn ;  and  a  little  to  unlearn.  He  has  to  learn 
that  God  is  a  living  God  now,  as  well  as  in  the 
middle  ages;  to  learn  to  trust  not  in  antique 
precedents,  but  in  eternal  laws :  to  learn  that  his 
tenants,  just  because  they  are  children  of  God,  are 
not  to  be  kept  children,  but  developed  and  edu- 
cated into  sons ;  to  learn  that  God's  grace,  like 
His  love,  is  free,  and  that  His  spirit  bloweth  where 
it  listeth,  and  vindicates  its  own  free-will  against 
our  narrow  systems,  by  revealing,  at  times,  even  to 
nominal  Heretics  and  Infidels,  truths  which  the 


344  Yeast 

Catholic  Church  must  humbly  receive,  as  the 
message  of  Him  who  is  wider,  deeper,  more  tol- 
erant, than  even  she  can  be.  ...  And  he  is  in  the 
way  to  learn  all  this.  Let  him  go  on.  At  what 
conclusions  he  will  attain,  he  knows  not,  nor  do  I. 
But  this  I  know,  that  he  is  on  the  path  to  great  and 
true  conclusions.  .  .  .  And  he  is  just  about  to  be 
married,  too.  That  surely  should  teach  him  some- 
thing. The  papers  inform  me  that  his  bride 
elect  is  Lord  Minchampstead's  youngest  daughter. 
That  should  be  a  noble  mixture ;  there  should  be 
stalwart  offspring,  spiritual  as  well  as  physical, 
born  of  that  intermarriage  of  the  old  and  the 
new.  We  will  hope  it:  perhaps  some  of  my 
readers,  who  enter  into  my  inner  meaning,  may 
also  pray  for  it. 
Whom  have  I  to  account  for  besides?  Crawy 

—  though  some  of  my  readers  may  consider  the 
mention  of  him  superfluous.     But  to  those  who  do 
not,  I  may  impart  the  news,  that  last  month,  in  the 
union  workhouse  —  he  died;  and  may,  for  aught 
we  know,  have  ere  this  met  Squire  Lavington.  .  .  . 
He  is  supposed,  or  at  least  said,  to  have  had  a  soul 
to  be  saved  ...  as  I  think,  a  body  to  be  saved 
also.     But  what  is  one  more  among  so  many? 
And  in  an  over-peopled  country  like  this,  too.  .  .  . 
One  must  learn  to  look  at  things  —  and  paupers 

—  in  the  mass. 

The  poor  of  Whitford  also?  My  dear  readers, 
I  trust  you  will  not  ask  me  just  now  to  draw  the 
horoscope  of  the  Whitford  poor,  or  of  any  others. 
Really  that  depends  principally  on  yourselves.  .  .  . 
But  for  the  present,  the  poor  of  Whitford,  owing, 
as  it  seems  to  them  and  me,  to  quite  other  causes 
than  an  "overstocked  labor-market,"  or  too  rapid 


Epilogue  345 

"  multiplication  of  their  species,"  are  growing 
more  profligate,  reckless,  pauperized,  year  by 
year.  O'Blareaway  complained  sadly  to  me  the 
other  day  that  the  poor-rates  were  becoming 
"heavier  and  heavier" — had  nearly  reached,  in- 
deed, what  they  were  under  the  old  law.  .  .  . 

But  there  is  one  who  does  not  complain, 
but  gives  and  gives,  and  stints  herself  to  give, 
and  weeps  in  silence  and  unseen  over  the  evils 
which  she  has  yearly  less  and  less  power  to 
stem. 

For  in  a  darkened  chamber  of  the  fine  house  at 
Steamingbath,  lies  on  a  sofa  Honoria  Lavington  — 
beautiful  no  more ;  the  victim  of  some  mysterious 
and  agonizing  disease,  about  which  the  physicians 
agree  on  one  point  only  —  that  it  is  hopeless.  The 
"  curse  of  the  Lavingtons "  is  on  her ;  and  she 
bears  it  There  she  lies,  and  prays,  and  reads,  and 
arranges  her  charities,  and  writes  little  books  for 
children,  full  of  the  Beloved  Name  which  is  for- 
ever on  her  lips.  She  suffers  —  none  but  herself 
knows  how  much,  or  how  strangely — yet  she  is 
never  heard  to  sigh.  She  weeps  in  secret  —  she 
has  long  ceased  to  plead  —  for  others,  not  for  her- 
self; and  prays  for  them  too  —  perhaps  some  day 
her  prayers  will  yet  be  answered.  But  she  greets 
all  visitors  with  a  smile  fresh  from  heaven ;  and  all 
who  enter  that  room  leave  it  saddened,  and  yet 
happy,  like  those  who  have  lingered  a  moment  at 
the  gates  of  paradise,  and  seen  angels  ascending 
and  descending  upon  earth.  There  she  lies  —  who 
could  wish  her  otherwise  ?  Even  Doctor  Autotheus 
Maresnest,  the  celebrated  mesmerizer,  who,  though 
he  laughs  at  the  Resurrection  of  the  Lord,  is  con- 
fidently reported  to  have  raised  more  than  one 
P— Vol.  V 


346  Yeast 

corpse  to  life  himself,  was  heard  to  say,  after 
having  attended  her  professionally,  that  her  waking 
bliss  and  peace,  although  unfortunately  unattribu- 
table  even  to  autocatalepsy,  much  less  to  som- 
nambulist exaltation,  was,  on  the  whole,  however 
unscientific,  almost  as  enviable. 

There  she  lies  —  and  will  lie  till  she  dies  —  the 
type  of  thousands  more,  "  the  martyrs  by  the  pang 
without  the  palm,"  who  find  no  mates  in  this  life 
.  .  .  and  yet  may  find  them  in  the  life  to  come. 
.  .  .  Poor  Paul  Tregarva !  Little  he  fancies  how 
her  days  run  by!  ... 

At  least,  there  has  been  no  news  since  that  last 
scene  in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  either  of  him  or 
Lancelot.  How  their  strange  teacher  has  fulfilled 
his  promise  of  guiding  their  education ;  whether 
they  have  yet  reached  the  country  of  Prester  John ; 
whether,  indeed,  that  Caucasian  Utopia  has  a  local 
and  bodily  existence,  or  was  only  used  by  Barnakill 
to  shadow  out  that  Ideal  which  is,  as  he  said  of  the 
Garden  of  Eden,  always  near  us,  underlying  the 
Actual,  as  the  spirit  does  its  body,  exhibiting  itself 
step  by  step  through  all  the  falsehoods  and  con- 
fusions of  history  and  society,  giving  life  to  all  in 
it  which  is  not  falsehood  and  decay ;  on  all  these 
questions  I  can  give  my  readers  no  sort  of  answer ; 
perhaps  I  may  as  yet  have  no  answer  to  give; 
perhaps  I  may  be  afraid  of  giving  one ;  perhaps  the 
times  themselves  are  giving,  at  once  cheerfully  and 
sadly,  in  strange  destructions  and  strange  births, 
a  better  answer  than  I  can  give.  I  have  set  forth, 
as  far  as  in  me  lay,  the  data  of  my  problem:  and 
surely,  if  the  premises  be  given,  wise  men  will  not 
have  to  look  far  for  the  conclusion.  In  homely 
English  I  have  given  my  readers  Yeast ;  if  they  be 


Epilogue  347 

what  I  take  them  for,  they  will  be  able  to  bake 
with  it  themselves. 

And  yet  I  have  brought  Lancelot,  at  least  —  per- 
haps Tregarva  too  —  to  a  conclusion,  and  an  all- 
important  one,  which  whoso  reads  may  find  fairly 
printed  in  these  pages.  Henceforth  his  life  must 
begin  anew.  Were  I  to  carry  on  the  thread  of  his 
story  continuously,  he  would  still  seem  to  have 
overleaped  as  vast  a  gulf  as  if  I  had  re-introduced 
him  as  a  gray-haired  man.  Strange  !  that  the 
death  of  one  of  the  lovers  should  seem  no  complete 
termination  to  their  history,  when  their  marriage 
would  have  been  accepted  by  all  as  the  legitimate 
denouement,  beyond  which  no  information  was  to 
be  expected.  As  if  the  history  of  love  always 
ended  at  the  altar  !  Oftener  it  only  begins  there ; 
and  all  before  it  is  but  a  mere  longing  to  love. 
Why  should  readers  complain  of  being  refused 
the  future  history  of  one  life,  when  they  are  in 
most  novels  cut  short  by  the  marriage  finale  from 
the  biography  of  two  ? 

But  if,  over  and  above  this,  any  reader  should 
be  wroth  at  my  having  left  Lancelot's  history 
unfinished  on  questions  in  his  opinion  more  im- 
portant than  that  of  love,  let  me  entreat  him  to  set 
manfully  about  finishing  his  own  history  —  a  far 
more  important  one  to  him  than  Lancelot's.  If  he 
shall  complain  that  doubts  are  raised  for  which  no 
solution  is  given,  that  my  hero  is  brought  into  con- 
tradictory beliefs  without  present  means  of  bring- 
ing them  to  accord,  into  passive  acquiescence 
in  vast  truths  without  seeing  any  possibility  of 
practically  applying  them  —  let  him  consider  well 
whether  such  be  not  his  own  case ;  let  him,  if  he 
be  as  most  are,  thank  God  when  he  finds  out 


348  Yeast 

that  such  is  his  case,  when  he  knows  at  last  that 
those  are  most  blind  who  say  they  see,  when  he 
becomes  at  last  conscious  how  little  he  believes, 
how  little  he  acts  up  to  that  small  belief.  Let 
him  try  to  right  somewhat  of  the  doubt,  confusion, 
custom-worship,  inconsistency,  idolatry,  within  him 

—  some  of  the  greed,  bigotry,  recklessness,  respect- 
ably superstitious  atheism  around  him?  and  per- 
haps before  his  new  task  is  finished,  Lancelot  and 
Tregarva  may  have  returned   with  a  message,  if 
not  for  him  —  for  that  depends  upon  his  having 
ears  to  hear  it  —  yet  possibly  for  strong  Lord  Min- 
champstead,  probably  for  good  Lord  Vieuxbois, 
and  surely  for  the  sinners  and  the  slaves  of  Whit- 
ford  Priors.    What  it  will  be,  I  know  not  altogether ; 
but  this  I  know,  that  if  my  heroes  go  on  as  they 
have  set  forth,  looking  with  single  mind  for  some 
one  ground  of  human  light  and  love,  some  ever- 
lasting rock  whereon  to  build,  utterly  careless  what 
the  building  may  be,  howsoever  contrary  to  pre- 
cedent and   prejudice,  and   the  idols  of  the  day, 
provided  God,  and  nature,  and   the  accumulated 
lessons  of  all  the  ages,  help  them  in  its  construction 

—  then  they  will  find  in  time  the  thing  they  seek, 
and  see  how  the  will  of  God  may  at  last  be  done 
on  earth,  even  as  it  is  done  in  heaven.     But,  alas ! 
between  them  and  it  are  waste  raging  waters,  foul 
mud  banks,  thick  with  dragons  and  sirens;    and 
many  a  bitter  day  and  blinding  night,  in  cold  and 
hunger,  spiritual  and  perhaps  physical,  await  them. 
For  it  was  a  true  vision  which  John  Bunyan  saw, 
and  one  which,  as  the  visions  of  wise  men  are  wont 
to  do,  meant  far  more  than  the  seer  fancied,  when 
he  beheld   in  his  dream  that  there  was  indeed  a 
land  of  Beulah,  and  Arcadian  Shepherd  Paradise, 


Epilogue  349 

on  whose  mountain  tops  the  everlasting  sunshine 
lay;  but  that  the  way  to  it,  as  these  last  three 
years  are  preaching  to  us,  went  past  the  mouth 
of  Hell,  and  through  the  valley  of  the  Shadow  of 
Death. 


THE  END 


A    00 1  nnT      "'' """ 

I  2**n  * 


